


And Here We are Again

by Lilly93224



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Darth Vader Redemption, Fix-It, Gen, Kinda OOC sorry this is my first fic, Oh I’ll add more tags and characters later I’m not completely sure of the details yet, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:08:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26721151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilly93224/pseuds/Lilly93224
Summary: Obi-Wan meets Darth Vader on the Death Star for what he plans to be their final confrontation. He’s largely given up hope for Anakin to be redeemed, but plans a parting message for him regardless, a last goodbye of sorts to the man he once would have been proud to call his brother.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Anakin Skywalker & Luke Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Ahsoka Tano, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Leia Organa, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Luke Skywalker, Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious & Anakin Skywaker
Comments: 68
Kudos: 152





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re reading this fic, tysm for even giving it a chance! Sorry for the quality, but I hope you like the idea at least. This switches perspectives a bit, the person narrating will always be at the top of the page, though. Again, thank you for even looking at this. Please leave suggestions for improvement!

Obi-Wan.

He knows he’s going to die. It was never his plan to survive this, really, only to serve as a distraction for Luke and Leia to flee to safety.

Luke. He burns bright in the force, like his father had. A beacon of light. Obi-Wan knows that he failed the boy, left him barely trained with Anakin’s lightsaber and a destiny too large to accomplish, but there was hope yet. That same hope that kept him alive on Tatooine for 19 years. The hope that the light would prevail, that the Force would finally provide a solution.

  
“Ben?” Luke sounded surprised. Obi-Wan already regretted what he was about to do, but it was necessary. Vader would pursue then capture them otherwise. On the other hand, not permitting his long-awaited victory would undoubtedly infuriate him, cause him to slip up. Because that was how Anakin worked and this creature was an amalgamation of the worst traits Anakin had possessed combined with whatever Sidious had thought fit to throw in.

  
The storm troopers in the area begin firing. He can’t see them, but he knows they wore armor similar to the clones he served beside, the ones forced to try and kill him. He’s glad he can’t see them.

  
He glances at Luke for what will be the last time, who looks as if he wants to reach Obi-Wan despite the blaster fire coming from every direction, and smiles a little. Anakin would have tried to do the same. Then he raises his lightsaber aloft with arthritic hands, pain shooting through nearly every nerve, and prepares to die. The last Jedi of a fallen Order.

  
He does not intend to block the crimson blade that will undoubtedly come, but rather, concentrates on sending all the love and hope and compassion he can muster through the shriveled, unused bond that he shared with this dark perversion of the man that was once his brother.

  
If there was anything left of Anakin in Vader, he wanted to say goodbye properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If nothing’s left of Anakin, Obi-Wan’s mildly hoping it’ll at least piss Vader off a bit more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Thank you for reading this! Again, any suggestions for improvement would be greatly appreciated, and I hope you have a great day!

Anakin.

He was in a constant, never-ending agony since Mustafar, but he was alive. Alive to allow the pain to fuel his hate for the man who did this, alive to destroy the very memory of the weak idiot who allowed this to happen.

Skywalker was dead, and soon, there would only be Darth Vader, the strongest Sith in existence. He could do anything after, perhaps even kill his master if it proved beneficial.

“Ben?” He hears a boy shout, the one that came to rescue the princess. Was that what Kenobi called himself now? The boy shines bright in the Force, no shielding to conceal his presence. Was _this_ his replacement? His former master already failed him, quite spectacularly at that, yet he chose to take another apprentice? So much for the goodness of the Jedi. Jealousy threatens to override his control but he discards it. The matter was not one worth feeling envious over, not when the boy was clearly so untrained. His only focus is his former master.

Who turns to look the boy’s way as their blades lock.

The storm troopers in the area begin firing, and Kenobi returns his attention to him. The children return fire, and a few of the troopers tumble over the side. He hears the starship lift off, leaving Kenobi behind. Good. The man is hardly worth saving.

As they draw back their blades, he calls on the anger and pain that fuel his very existence, allowing the emotions to pour over him like the rivers of lava that traverse his fortress on Mustafar. He brings his blade up, preparing for another bout of fighting. He'll finally be able to kill the man-

Then he feels it. The old bond with his former master, the one that logic dictates Kenobi should have cut to stay in hiding- damn you you sentimental fool- sparks to life. He pauses, out of surprise, he tells himself. Surprise that Kenobi would even bother after having left him to die- no, not him. Skywalker. Skywalker was weak, and trusted easily, and died for it.

He feels the warmth distantly, as if another person entirely was experiencing it, emotions permeating into the Force. But he feels it nonetheless. And after decades without it, it burns. Memories of the time when they had fought side by side, times they thought was going to be the end, their unacknowledged tradition of a silent goodbye, rise, unbidden. He crushes them, crushes the longing he felt for an easier time, because all that he lost was at the hands of the man in front of him. They rise again anyway.

“You think that will save you?” He tries again to summon his anger, his scorn for the man in front of him, but they are trickles of water now in contrast to the waves of emotions he hadn’t been able to truly feel since Padme had died, that now envelope him entirely.

Regret blooms. Sorrow joins with it, and loss, and fear of what was happening. This should have been impossible. Skywalker was dead. Yoda had always said it was impossible to return from the dark, and for all his ignorance, the troll had been alive for centuries, must have seen countless Jedi try and fail to help those who had fallen. Even discounting that, he was the Chosen One, foretold to bring balance to the Force, to end the oppressive light of the Jedi. He would put little stock in prophecies if not for the fact it had happened, and how the Force always seemed to get its way whether that be for the better or worse for those who served it. Skywalker tried to fight destiny. Darth Vader is a testament that that did not, could not, work.

His blade lowers. Stupid- oh he was a karking idiot- he was going to die now, Kenobi would finally kill him, he couldn’t leave otherwise, Force, was this how he was going to finally die? He raises his hand, hoping desperately that he could Force-push Kenobi away in time, that this idiotic error wouldn’t cost him his life- but Obi-Wan wasn’t moving. Surprise and pity and confusion color the air around him, and he can feel it through their recently reignited bond, and that pity finally allows him to dredge up enough loathing to overcome the other emotions cascading through him. Now was his moment! He could kill his former master and be done with it, be done with the memories and regrets and everything-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not completely clear on how the dark side of the force works, so sorry for any inaccuracies. My main idea through this wasn’t that the Sith were incapable of feeling any positive emotions, but that they were mostly too absorbed with getting more power, or, in Darth Vader’s case, too utterly miserable looking at everything he lost when he fell. I was thinking along the lines of Obi-Wan giving Darth Vader hope, even if it’s not for something that he cares about, gave Darth Vader the capacity to address some of his feelings, since I think a lot of emotions kind of fade away into never-ending misery if there’s no hope for anything getting better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! 15 Kudos! Ty everybody who kudosed!!

Obi-Wan

The Force will provide a solution.

Master Jinn’s favorite maxim. Obi-Wan had never particularly liked the phrase. The Force gifted them with wisdom and strength to use it, not to wait patiently for something that may never come. When he could do nothing but wait, however, the phrase had been a small comfort. Now he was wishing nothing more than it to be irrelevant.

If this was the Force’s solution, he was quite sure he didn’t like it, truth be told.

Vader- or had he been right before, thinking that Anakin was still in there somewhere- whoever it was in the black life-support suit in front of him, lowered his blade. It was for a second at most, and barely so, yet- could he really try to kill him, when it could be Anakin? His little brother, who he had hoped for years would return to the light, whose own children he didn’t even know- who-

Who he had left to burn on Mustafar, unable to finish the task, or even see it through. Who had been falling perhaps since as long as he knew him, but in that time had not once stopped fighting the dark.

“Anakin-” His voice broke a little. He wasn’t sure what to say, what was anyone supposed to say when confronted with something like this. He opened his mouth to start again-

“That boy died on Mustafar. I am Darth Vader.” That rhythmic, mechanical, breathing, the only sound in the room now, was deafening. Obi-Wan chose to focus on that, lest he be distracted by the room becoming blurred with the oncoming of tears, or what felt like a sudden gaping wound in his chest, barely mending and already torn open. “You will regret that, old man.”

The duel began anew with ferocity. Obi-Wan, old as he was, had never abandoned his katas, and as such, could barely deflect the strikes Vader rained down on him. Drawing strength from the Force, he _just_ managed to keep a hold on his lightsaber, and still is pushed back, forced to abandon the circular footwork of Soresu for a straight retreat. Silently, tears began to fall. Vader only pushes harder.

Perhaps sensing imminent triumph, Vader presses closer, swings becoming a little too wide, not defending where he should have. Obi-Wan noticed the exact moment Vader began neglecting his high guard, because Anakin had done so every time he became overconfident in a duel. They hadn’t had time to correct that, not with the war calling for blaster deflection rather than saber dueling. He takes the opening, sliding his blade along Vader’s. A stream of sparks blind them both, until he neatly sliced off Vader’s left forearm.

The resulting howl is accompanied by swirls of pain and anger in the Force, and Obi-Wan could feel it through their bond, the sheer rage and horror momentarily bringing him back to Mustafar- Force, would he have to end it the same way twice? No- no, he should have let himself be killed, that was the _plan_.

A blaster bolt singes the top of his hair, barely missing his head. Several others miss him entirely, and one almost hits the black monstrosity in front of him, and despite everything that had just occurred, he feels a spark of morbid amusement. Cody would have yelled himself hoarse if any of the _vod_ had been that bad of a shot.

His sentiments are far from reflected in his counterpart. Vader raises his handless arm, and the offending stormtroopers tumble off the walkway, their screams echoing as they fall. The other arm is already swinging at him again, but not as powerfully as before, and Obi-Wan knows he can use this to his advantage, even if he isn’t sure whether he should- whether even he wants to survive.

They're more evenly matched now, but Vader can outlast him. He already feels an oncoming headache from drawing too much from the Force, and physical exhaustion is bound to catch up soon.

“I am more powerful than you will ever be. Admit it!” Obi-Wan can barely respond, barely able to deflect each blow, almost gasping for breath.

“You are but a slave to the Dark side, Dar-”

“I. AM NOT. A SLAVE.” Each word is accentuated with a wild blow, and Vader’s overextending, losing balance with the sheer force of momentum. Obi-Wan dodges easily, catching his breath, taking his time to respond. He’s not completely sure why he’s still refusing to give in, but he has a feeling it’s the right thing to do.

“Are you not?” The scorn in his voice is faked, and not well. It throws Vader off balance nonetheless. “You have no control, no reason for action beyond-” Obi-Wan leaps backwards, barely avoiding the blade now digging itself deep into the floor. Vader wrenches it out, undeterred. “Beyond an insatiable greed for power, with which you do nothing but destroy what you once cared about.” The words hardly leave his mouth before Vader jerks his hand. Obi-Wan rises off the floor, hands grasping at his throat, a futile gesture. He slams into the wall behind him, head cracking against the hard durocrete, and can just barely manage to lift his head while the world is spinning so much- why is it spinning? A great black blur looms above him, overtaking his vision. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about Anakin not returning to the light right away, I just kind of figured that he'd be feeling, well, around two decades of delayed regrets coming up and kind of hate having a conscience again. Promise there'll be a happy ending though! Please kudos and leave suggestions for improvement!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comment and kudos! Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Anakin. 

His former master lies unconscious in front of him. Defeated. He raises his blade, breathing barely regulated by the life-support machinery, and considers simply lopping the man’s head off for all the trouble. 

But he is _not_ a slave to his whims. His master may want the Jedi for his own purposes, and if not, the man could be privy to information about the Rebels. 

He deactivates his lightsaber and replaces it on his waist, then opens his commlink, ordering that the prisoner be taken to detention block AA-25, for dangerous Force-sensitives awaiting transfer. As inefficient as non-clones tended to be, the current storm troopers would be hard-pressed to kriff this up. 

He summons Obi- no, Kenobi’s, lightsaber. The grip is worn to the point it should have been replaced long ago, but aside from that, it seems well maintained. But it's not the one stolen from him on Mustafar. He had quite liked that one. No matter. As a pair of storm troopers round the corner, Force-suppressant handcuffs and hypospray in hand, he turns, cape billowing behind him. 

The hallways were constructed to be as bland and militaristic as possible, fluorescent lights barely filtered by the suit’s optical lenses, still bright enough to hurt his eyes. He's long-since concluded that his master likely had a hand in it.

He heads toward the communications area to report to the man. His suit will need replacement, despite it having been barely functional even before an arm was removed. It is not an immediate concern, though, besides being a potential weakness if he is to engage in any serious combat. It was a mistake to allow O- Kenobi, to aggravate him. Padme’s death, regrettable as it was, had given him the gift of despair and anger, had strengthened him as a Sith. He _benefitted_. 

Storm troopers marching down the hall lean away from him as he walks, aware on some level of the Force roiling in turmoil around him, despite none being Force-sensitive. He hardly notices. 

The doors open and close with a hiss. The room beyond it is almost completely black, the color seeming to leech out light and warmth.

The transmission begins. His master’s image flickers, then stabilizes, the blue light barely illuminating a portion of the room. A long, dark, hood still shadows much of the projection’s face, despite there no longer being any need for anonymity. The sneer, however, remains very much visible.

Vader kneels on the small circular platform in front of the holoprojector, and it lights up as soon as he steps on it. He bows his head. 

“Report.” 

“The rebel princess escaped with the help of others, my lord, but we have a tracker on their ship. We have reason to believe they will lead us directly to the Rebel base of operations.” A pause. “I have captured Jedi Master Kenobi-”

“You did not kill him?”

“No, my lord. I believe he may have relevant information.”

“You are conflicted.” He stays silent. It isn’t a question, and even if it were, there would be no correct response. “Anakin Skywalker is dead. Ensure that his master joins him.”

“My lord, he may reveal-”

“He has caused you harm, has he not? He was the one to put you in this suit. Return the favor.” 

“Yes, my lord.” He does not intend to follow the order, of course- it would waste a perfectly good source of information. His master senses the rebellious spirit in him, but overlooks it, assuming it is the standard unwillingness to obey orders he disagreed with.

“Track the rebels and destroy their base at any cost.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Return to the Imperial City afterwards.” He will not be receiving another suit, then. 

“Yes, my lord.” 

The transmission ends. 

Vader flexes his remaining hand, slowly. The holoprojector previously displaying his master is crushed as easily as balling up a sheet of flimsi. He stands, and with a swift motion, throws the crushed device against the wall, leaving a dent upon impact. The small thump of duroplastic hitting the floor echoes through the room. More thumps, as the metal of his boots hit on the floor as he heads off the platform, back towards the door. He raises his arm as he walks, this time pulling. The platform violently rips out of its position, wires dangling off the edges. He turns around, draws his lightsaber and ignites it, the crimson making the room seem even colder. 

No. He has _control_.

The platform drops with a loud thunk as he deactivates his lightsaber and turns back towards the door. The nearest pressurized meditation chamber isn't far. He wants the damned helmet off his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so I forgot to mention this earlier, but my view on Vader is that he's essentially Anakin minus any attempts to do good. I really don't think he sees much distinction between the two either- he refers to himself as Luke's father in the movie. That's not to say there's no dissociation between the two, I personally think it's to the extent that he doesn't really want to tarnish the image of who he was with who he is now. I think that Palpatine talks about a separation between the two to kind of discourage any chance of Anakin turning back to the light.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to anyone who kudosed, commented, or just read through this!! It's been really fun to write and I hope you enjoy this next bit, especially if you're reading this for Vader redemption!

Anakin.  
The inside of his meditation chamber is completely white, looking more like the operation rooms in medcenters than a place anyone could find peace in. It did function as one, in fact; the room could sustain him without his mask, and so could be used for surgery if necessary.

He sits on a chair in the center of the room, helmet and mask hanging above his head. He keeps his eyes closed. Finding peace within the Force was not something he ever had a particular aptitude for, and more often than not, now, he sought the opposite. Regardless, he falls into a deep meditation within minutes.

Without his want, memories of Padme began to surface. He barely fights it. Her voice rings out in his memories, fighting in the Senate for a hopeless cause, trying to convince corrupt politicians to support plans that would send aid to war-torn countries. Her passion, that she threw into anything and everything. Her face, alight in happiness when she told him she was pregnant, despite knowing that they may have to raise their child during a war, that the child’s father might one day not return.

Despite the countless medical checkups she had following his first few nightmares of her death, they had always kept the gender of the baby a secret. It was supposed to be a surprise. Padme was convinced it would be a boy, but he had always thought it would be a girl. Either prospect was terrifying, and doubly so if she inherited either of their recklessness.

That’s all gone now. He had killed Padme in a fit of rage, choked her to death like Dooku and Ventress nearly had to him so many times. Sadness and grief pour over him, because, kriff, he could have had all that and more, and he nearly did. He can hear his helmet shaking along with everything in the room not locked down, and he barely restrains himself from tearing a hole into the room.

It’s gone. It’s all gone, and there’s no going back- there’s no return to Mortis, to the Sith Temple on Malachor, the world between worlds. Misery and dejection threaten to take him, bring him under their grasp again, yet he wants so badly to hope. It’s useless, he knows, but he has to cling on to something, anything, that keeps him from drowning. Before, it was purely rage and anger at the man that had put him in the suit, that had turned Padme against him- but whether or not he made Obi-Wan suffer, even to the point of exceeding the pain he’s felt, if that were possible, it wouldn’t bring her, or their unborn child, or any of that future, back. He may not have cared a short while ago, but- after defeating his former master, he had not felt a sense of victory, nor the satisfaction he longed for. He simply felt- empty. Tired, even.

And that hope manifests itself into one for revenge, to end whatever it was that brought him here. Happy or not with the Jedi, slave or not, he was better off then than he was now. Rage and hate feed into the hope, twisting it into something a bit darker, but it remains his lifeline nonetheless. Resentment bubbles up inside of him. His master, the man who had encouraged him down this path, who held power over him- the man would never allow him to become powerful enough to break his chains, to free himself. Vader knew he had previously sought other apprentices in an attempt to prolong the cycle of the Sith. He knew that the ideals of a perfect galaxy he had once fought for were lies, but he can _do_ something about it. The all-consuming want to pay back every suffering he had ever endured at the hand of the one man he once thought he could rely on engulfs him. He wants to make his master suffer, to render every accomplishment worthless, to torture Palpatine for all eternity, just— anything, anything at all, to make the man suffer as he had. 

He began to formulate a plan, one that may well have been suicidal, but he didn't particularly care. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that Vader would have seen his existence as more of a means to an end, hence the last bit. Also, as to why he might have not come to that conclusion earlier, I think Palpatine had previously tried to twist his grief at the loss of Padme towards self-hatred, and that mostly worked, except now Vader isn't under direct control of Palpatine and Palpatine therefore can't control a lot of the stuff that happens to him, nor manipulate it to make Vader more subservient. Also, I'll probably be drawing partially from Disney and canon partially from Legends, so I'll try to put in end notes if I draw from Legends to avoid confusion.


	6. Chapter 6

Obi-Wan.  
The nightmare begins as usual. He stands in a grassy field this time, near the summer palace of Alderaanian nobles. The mountains in the backdrop loom, and yet, nothing seems out of place to him in the dreamscape.

Despite what should be cool, thin, air at this altitude, the oppressive heat of his memories is still present. The knowledge that a single foot out of place could mean a long drop into lava.

Anakin stands in front of him, not the black mechanical monster he is now, but still whole and looking as he always had during the war. If it weren’t for the rage and hate swirling menacingly around him, Obi-Wan could be mistaken in thinking anything was out of the ordinary, and even then, it was only the strikes raining down that grounded him in the here and now.

He tries to reason with Anakin, tries to find out why, why the slaughter of the younglings, how he could have failed him so badly. He refuses to go on the offense, tight Soresu movements barely countering Anakin’s wild swings. They both know how the other fights, their weak points, but rather than covering one another in battle, Anakin is trying to kill him.

The grass and fields begin to fall away, revealing rivers of lava below. The sequence comes to an end as it always does, with him making one last attempt, one last plea for Anakin not to fight, he has the high ground Force dammit, stop trying to run uphill towards your death-

But Anakin rarely listened, whether on saber fighting or battlefield tactics. And so he acted as he always had, rushing up towards what would surely be his demise, with a mission in mind and no regard for personal safety. He leapt through the air, flipping as he went, right into the bright blue arc of Obi-Wan’s swinging saber.

Then he watches as Anakin burns, hears the call for help. He watches, and is unable to move. He wants to reach out, wants to help the boy in front of him, but he is only a spectator in his memories. Because Anakin must choose. Choose to either leap into the abyss, or take the long climb back up, and he can’t help unless Anakin is willing to.

Then the boiling lava fades into the dark expanse of space, and Anakin is falling, screams echoing through the vast expanse, dying, and Force, he can’t even reach him-

Obi-Wan notices his new surroundings with a jolt. He stands in the center of an asteroid field entirely unfamiliar to him, but— he’s seen it before, he’s sure of it. Then it hits him. Alderaan. What was left of it, at least. Was Bail there, floating somewhere in the rubble? Was Breha? He looks around, as if expecting to see bodies, some evidence that anyone at all had ever lived here, even though he doesn’t need to- the gaping maw of millions, billions of lives suddenly extinguished, echoes in the Force.  _ Why _ hadn’t he acted  _ earlier _ , Alderaan had always been a peaceful planet, even through the war. His inaction had brought them here, he should have done  _ something _ … 

The deep core flares bright white in the distance, blinding him over the stretch of space. He winces in pain, and can already feel the oncoming migraine. The light fades quickly as he opens his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, teachers are starting to give more homework and tests. I'll probably be updating once every one or two weeks unless that changes. Again, thank you to everybody reading!

Obi-Wan.   
The room is mostly dark. It's both a blessing and a curse, with the lack of light making Obi-Wan’s headache infinitesimally more bearable. His eyes have begun to fail in his old age, however, and the strain to make out any of his surroundings balances out whatever relief he had originally felt at the lack of light. 

He tries to sit up, only to feel heavy weights around his wrists and ankles. He tugs on them somewhat desperately, ignoring the pain that shoots up from his hands. He can’t sense the Force. His breathing begins to quicken- this is too similar to every time Count Dooku has captured him, he’s going to die, oh Force, he’s going to die—

He’s shaking, he knows this, and he rolls sideways in his panic, unceremoniously landing on the floor with a thump. The headache worsens, if that were possible, but the motion reminds him that he’s not in a containment field, he’s not captured— by Count Dooku at least. 

Pain lances up his shoulders, but it’s a secondary concern. He’s in… oh Force. He was battling Darth Vader, had cut the man’s arm off— 

He stops the train of thought. It’s pointless, now, and not even an escape plan is useful in the moment if he can’t so much as move. 

Obi-Wan rolls onto his back and lifts his head somewhat strenuously. Angling his body to the right, he places his cuffed hands against the floor behind him and levers his body into an upright position, then stands with some difficulty. It seems entirely possible in the moment that Vader had sensed his weakening joints and purposely designed this situation. It would be the kind of petty thing Anakin—

He reaches backwards and feels around for the ledge he fell from. It seemed to be some sort of bench, entirely unpadded and therefore the cause of the soreness along his back. He straightens, and feels the tip of his head reach the ceiling. They take all the precautions with Force inhibitors, but don’t bother to expand prison cell space? A disbelieving scoff makes its way outside his mouth. 

He sits back down on the bench, awkwardly trying to push his arms underneath him, then his legs, until his hands rest on his lap. The faint light emitted from the tractor beam connecting the cuffs allows him to make out his surroundings. The ceiling above the bench is sloped, and everything in the room is black, designed to suck out the light as to scare prisoners. The door sits opposite him, but he can’t make out the details of it, and he won’t be able to sense it either- the Force suppressors remind him of that much. The room is undoubtedly monitored and heavily guarded— he wouldn’t be surprised if the Empire had also installed ray shields and containment fields nearby.

All his clothing is thankfully still on him, minus his cloak. That’s a pity— good cloaks were hard to come by cheap on Tatooine, and it wasn’t as if he had much money to purchase the better quality ones. The room feels somewhat cold without it, but hardly any more than elsewhere, now that he no longer was on a desert planet. The weight along his hip where his lightsaber would have been feels empty. That was a given, it wasn’t as if anyone were about to allow him to make an easy escape, or to take his own life— no, if they were keeping him, it was for information. 

Interrogation would be horribly easy in his current condition. Whatever was to happen would be painful, likely both physically and mentally. Perhaps Vader would conjure illusions of the Jedi, or use their bond—

Oh. Their bond. That was… going to be a bigger issue. He could block it, of course, but under torture may be… difficult. And he doubted he would be allowed any true chance of escape during it. Before? No.. he had no recollection of anything past Vader choking him, so they had likely used a sedative afterwards, although it seems to have worn off. Something similar would be employed to transfer him to an interrogation room, and there was going to be a different room for interrogation— it made the prisoner feel less secure, especially if they had become accustomed to their original space. They had employed this method to decent effect during the Clone Wars. No doubt Vader would also have it brightly lit, both to disorient, and for the added sense of drama. 

There was only one thing he could do, short of escaping— ensure what information he knew never passed to Vader. Luke and Leia must be kept safe, at any cost. 

And there was one tried and true tactic that worked with both Vader and Anakin. He would have to anger him into striking out, into killing Obi-Wan. It was not a pleasant thought, nor was it exactly how he had wanted to spend his last moments, but it was what had to be done.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fails to astound me people are reading this, so thank you everybody who bothers looking at this fic!!

Anakin.  
Detention block AA-25 is extremely well-guarded with a variety of precautions, lest a prisoner manage to make their way outside their cells. Several levels of ray shields had to be passed using code cylinders given only to guards and extremely high-ranking officers. Each cell also had a containment field in front of it, similar to those that Dooku used during the Clone Wars, designed to hold Force-sensitives in place long enough to be subdued or killed. He had advocated for guards of a species more naturally resistant to mind-tricks and the like, but both Palpatine and Tarkin were strict believers in human superiority. Instead, holocams lined every hallway and were strategically placed within cells to ensure full coverage of prisoners.

Shortly after having risen from meditation, he had been informed that Obi-Wan had awoken.

It was now or never.

Both his and his former master’s lightsabers hang on his belt. Dangerous as it may be, it is necessary to gain Obi-Wan’s trust in this matter. Padme… Padme would say it was a stupid risk, but she wouldn’t have done any differently.

No stormtrooper nor officer dares interrupt him on his way— he is clearly in a foul mood, what with an entire forearm removed. He inserts his personal code cylinder to deactivate the containment field outside Cell 3145, and braces himself for whatever is to happen next.

Storm troopers usually brought prisoners to interrogation rooms, but more precautions were taken in the case of Force-users. Disabling the containment field automatically caused the ventilation shafts within the room to disperse aerosol sedatives, the dosage being given according to species. This... generally worked, and overdoses did not occur often. Humans were typically rendered unconscious within a minute, as the sedatives could be absorbed through the skin, so holding one’s breath was useless. After the vital signs of the prisoner inside indicated that they were unconscious, the door to the cell would open, allowing any of the remaining sedative-laced air not already filtered to drift out.

Obi-Wan sits slouched on the bench, head resting against his chest. His hands are folded in his lap, as if the man had fallen asleep while waiting for someone to arrive.

He turns sharply, lifting his remaining hand as he walks. His former master levitates slightly behind him. He makes his way down the hall to one of the many interrogation rooms, short-circuiting the holocams as he enters. None of the guards would bother them, if they valued their lives. He allows the interrogator droid and the med-droid stationed outside each room to enter behind him, however. There was no reason to arouse too much suspicion.

Obi-Wan is beginning to stir. The sedative is not meant to last for long, after all, or interrogation would mostly consist of waiting for the prisoner to wake.

The white walls and harsh lights of the room are a far cry from the prison cells. A large, upright board with adjustable magnetic cuffs lays to the right of the door, and a neatly folded cloth sits beneath it. Lower-level personnel could not always be privy to certain deaths, and wheeling dead bodies around was considered to be in bad taste, even for the Empire.

The droids take up positions on his left. He flips the board so it lays horizontally, then releases his telekinetic hold on Obi-Wan, allowing the man to unceremoniously crumple onto the surface. The droids remain stationary as he accesses each of their memory banks and replaces them, deactivating both after he finishes.

He back turns around to face Obi-Wan.

The room’s lighting is merciless, placing every year of age on full display— previously ginger hair had lightened and thinned, with streaks of white at its roots. The man’s skin is leathery and stretched tightly over his frame. When he straightens and looks up, his beard is untrimmed and messy, something that had hardly occurred even in the worst days of the war.

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow, looking severely unimpressed.

“Is this an attempt to fool me? I would have thought better of you, Darth.” The condescending tone makes him want to punch the man. That, at the very least, has not changed. He chooses to ignore the comment.

He isn’t particularly sure how to start. He is acting on pure impulse, more than anything else— he hates the Death Star with a passion, that was why he had ensured there was a flaw in its design at all. Small, yes, but exploitable should he ever feel the need, or if any rebel were stupid enough to launch a suicide mission after they inevitably found the battlestation schematics. Such as the one the princess had undertaken. She had been right about the Death Star, of course. As a means of suppressing worlds, it was completely useless. Killing those loyal to the Empire and Rebel sympathizers alike— there would not be a better way to further drive more citizens to the cause it was meant to destroy.

He can faintly feel the deaths on Alderaan, a soundless void that dulls his senses. Making an example of a core world, one so densely populated… he had— he had undoubtedly done worse, but not so arbitrarily. Punishing those who had not done anything only increases resentment for the senseless acts of violence, born of an inability to do anything about it.

Helping the rebels is a secondary matter, since they could serve as a thorn in his master’s side. They are less than scum, a motley collection of former Separatists and overly noble fools who believe they can improve the galaxy. But he had long since discarded any illusion that the Empire was superior to the previous Republic in any way— its corruption was simply more visible. And there were less people willing to fight against it. So he supposes it doesn’t matter much who it was trying to destroy it.

The silence stretches for a while, before he decides on what to say.

“The Death Star is an abomination—”

“So I suppose that is why you choose to use it?”

Anger boils under his carefully constructed shields. He could likely go through with his plans without having this interaction at all, but that would have been cowardice, not to mention much more difficult. The Rebel Alliance would not trust the information delivered unless Obi-Wan himself told them.

“I had no say in its usage nor construction.” He had opposed it in fact, opposed the use of slavery for its construction too, but his master had trusted Tarkin on this matter, and he had been placed under Tarkin for its operation. Raising further objection would have only gotten him electrocuted.

“I can hardly believe that Lord Vader had no means of opposing that.” Oh how easy it would be to just kill him. Warning the rebels to evacuate and thereby survive was a matter of annoying his master, in case he did not succeed in killing him. It was not necessary to his plans.

He let out a long breath, then began again. He may not have a way with words, not know when to say what to change people’s minds, but the course of action he was proposing was beneficial to the both of them. The only matter that truly remained was convincing the man in front of him of that.

“A homing beacon was placed on the ship the princess escaped on.” Obi-Wan did not outwardly react to his words, and nothing was discernible in the Force either. “The Death Star will move towards the Rebel Alliance’s base on Yavin IV within the hour. If you blend in with the detachment leaving for Dantooine, you can reach Yavin IV in time to evacuate them.”

“And I suppose this is out of the goodness in your heart?”

“The Rebellion will die regardless of whether or not their main base is destroyed today. The remaining bits will be weeded out and destroyed. Its temporary continuation serves only as a thorn in my master’s side.”

“The Empire’s most loyal servant, the face of its darkness and oppression, is supporting action against our most esteemed emperor?” The mock gasp makes him severely regret every choice he had taken up to this point to preserve Obi-Wan’s life, yet miraculously, he does not ram his fist through the man’s chest.

“It does not matter how you view me. I am offering you the opportunity to save whatever friends you still have.” He pauses in consideration. “Such as your new apprentice.” The thought that Obi-Wan took on another apprentice, after he had failed so thoroughly before— it made the idea of killing the man much, much more appealing. The Jedi, once known throughout the galaxy for their wisdom. Oh, the irony. “He’s quite untrained, for someone of that age.” Even he had developed rudimentary shields as a child, and without any training at that. Most younglings within the Jedi Temple learned how to soon after being brought there, so this was some Force-sensitive Obi-Wan had picked up after Order 66.

“And I suppose this isn’t some trap?” Obi-Wan remains as composed as ever on the outside, but emotions swirl quickly in the space around the man before disappearing behind shields. He feels a prick of jealousy— Obi-Wan clearly cares about the boy, despite him having left the man to die— then quashes it mercilessly. They were wasting time.

He draws his lightsaber, the blade humming through the air as he cuts through the Force-suppressor cuffs binding Obi-Wan’s hands and feet, then deactivates the blade, returning it to his belt.

“Search in the Force. This is the truth.”

He braces himself. Maybe it wouldn't hurt that much?

That's about as likely as this plan working. Oh well.

For the first time in two decades, he lets down his mental shields, letting the sincerity of his statements speak for themselves.

Electrocution would have been preferable, really. He had been able to block out most of the backlash from Alderaan’s destruction before, but now, right next to the asteroid field that was once Alderaan? He could hear it in full force. It was not the screams of the Jedi Temple after he had slaughtered the younglings, nor the pervasive suffering of slaves toiling away at their new occupations, but a deafening silence that overwhelmed every part of him. Oftentimes the only thing he could hear was his own breathing, the air filter rasping along, a reminder of his reliance on the Force-damned suit. He can’t hear even that now. Far from freeing, he feels more weighed down than ever. He slams his shields up after just a few seconds, unable to bear the quiet.

“Why choose to act now? If you are so concerned with this matter, why not act before destroying Alderaan?”

He doesn’t reply, but instead, draws out the second lightsaber in his belt, hardly able to hold onto it— his gauntlet is too bulky— and tosses it to Obi-Wan.

“You’ll need that.”

He takes the stunned silence to indicate tacit agreement to listen to the plan he is about to propose. At the very least, Obi-Wan hadn’t immediately attempted to kill him.

“The med-droid will register your cause of death as a lightsaber wound to the chest. You will be transported to the morgue, four levels below the equator of the battlestation, where the starfighter trenches are located. From there, you should be able to take over one of the ships leaving for Dantooine and head towards Yavin IV instead. I estimate you will have three hours to evacuate them.”

Obi-Wan shifts in his seat, then looks down to examine his lightsaber. For a few minutes, the only noise in the room is his breathing and the faint buzz of light above them. He opens and closes his mouth several times, unsure of what else to say. Thank Force for the mask. And for the bulk of his armor making fidgeting impossible. He begins to make another attempt to interrupt the silence— he’s always hated silence—

“Alright.”

A sudden rush of air leaves him, and he relaxes as much as he can in his armor. That’s the hardest bit done. With a flick of his hand, the cloth placed underneath the board Obi-Wan is on rises up, billowing slightly in his telekinetic grip. Obi-Wan replaces his lightsaber at his waist with a clip, then shifts to lie facing upwards toward the ceiling. The sheet rests neatly over the man, with about a foot of cloth hanging off each side.

“The stormtroopers will arrive soon. You have 23 minutes to make your escape.”

He jerks his hand sideways, and both droids reactivate. He restores connection to the holocams as well, then pushes open the door, droids trailing behind. The durosteel shuts behind him with a loud clang. The droids resume their positions beside the door, plugging into hidden sockets behind them to upload the new information in their databanks, before heading in the opposite direction for the standard memory wipe after interrogations.

That had gone… well, by his standards, which, admittedly, wasn’t saying much. By… by Padme’s standards, then. Something would inevitably go wrong— that was a given with most of his plans, one of the reasons behind his preference for acting in the moment. Now, though… He was acting entirely of his own volition, for the first time in far too long. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the quality. I tried my best to make it in character, but I’m pretty sure I failed. On another note, in canon, there was a star destroyer dispatched immediately after Leia said Dantooine was the main Rebel base, and it doesn’t specify that in Legends, just that Tarkin wanted Alderaan destroyed as a show of force. I’ll be following Legends in this case, and say that they allowed Leia to escape in order to confirm the location, since they had to wait a bit for the laser to recharge anyway. I’m also following Legends for Vader’s feelings on slavery, and for the weakness in the Death Star. I couldn’t find anything timewise beyond that there was a day between Alderaan’s destruction and the Battle of Yavin, so I’m just guessing for that. The Millennium Falcon has a class 0.5 hyperdrive, so it’s really, really fast. The Death Star has a class 4 hyperdrive, while almost all of the ships listed in imperial fleets have faster ones. The Millennium Falcon has already arrived at Yavin, Obi-Wan should be able to get there before the Death Star, a bit before the scouting fleet. Should be.
> 
> Oh yeah addition from like two weeks after this was posted so ty to Sky for having pointed this out in the comments, Galen Erso was in fact the person who made the flaw in the Death Star design in canon. I'm following Legends for this (forgot to mention, really dumb of me for something this big, sorry!) where it was identified as unnecessary by an architect, but the Wookie in charge of construction on that section insisted on getting the amendment in writing; the Wookie died before the amendment was submitted and so his replacement built it with the flaw. I think that Vader would want to learn more about the Death Star's construction from an academic point of view because he's a lot like Anakin, probably still likes all things mechanical, even if some parts of it he doesn't fully get since he mostly worked with starships and droids. The exhaust port is a pretty clear weakness for someone looking specifically for a weakness with full plans for the Death Star, given that it led directly to the super laser and was only defended by a ray shield. Proton torpedoes + very very hot place = ka-boom for the station, especially since it leads to this thing that can destroy planets, so I do think Vader would have seen it and willfully ignored it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I finally got around to outlining my plot, so I was finally able to add some of the characters that’ll be in this! I say some because I’m not too sure about like two of them, and more problems will probably come up. Also not too sure about what I should do for rating, given who knows I might feel like writing something a bit more gruesome because gosh darn reading about Vader’s suit is… informative of the type of person Palpatine is. On a nicer note, ty to everyone reading, kudosing, commenting, and subscribing, it really makes my day to know that people are enjoying this!

He lay in meditation for what felt like an eternity. What just happened— he trusts in the Force. It had led him this far, and it was clearer on this matter than any other. Yet—

Why now? Why not before, before the deaths of so many— before an entire planet had been blown off star charts— he could feel the terrifying void in the Force, where billions of lives had suddenly blinked out. The aftermath in the Force of the Jedi Temple was the only thing he could compare the sensation to, the wholesale destruction of a way of life. He desperately wants to hope that Vader is acting for something beyond himself, that there was still some speck of Anakin fighting the dark, but that’s beyond wishful thinking, or even blind delusions. It had to be. 

And now, he was about to escape, if he trusted Vader. The terror of the galaxy, who massacred his way across worlds on behalf of the Galactic Empire. Regardless of what had been offered, Vader had not done more than say he was against the Death Star, and so the battlestation could still be used again and again, killing billions more— but he can’t not warn the rebels, warn Luke and Leia, give them even a miniscule chance of escape. Even if he’s inadvertently supporting some attempt at a coup, the fate of the galaxy still lies in Luke. That was why he had waited out nearly two decades on Tatooine, rather than anything he could have done to save worlds like Alderaan… 

Whatever the reason behind Vader’s apparent treachery, the offer was genuine. 

His contemplation is interrupted by the thump of boots. Two stormtroopers enter the room, steps eerily in sync. He keeps his breath low and shallow, keeping every inch of his body tense. They each take a side of the board he lay on and roll it out the door, held open by a third stormtrooper. His lightsaber is a comforting weight on his hip— if need be, he can make a quick escape. 

The three march down the corridors, turning several times to eventually make their way to a turbolift. Several others join them in there, all exiting on various levels. They do the same after a minute or two, making several more turns before stopping outside what he assumes is their morgue. The door opens, and a wave of freezing air hits him— having his cloak is a luxury he sorely misses. He cannot afford to shiver, however, and so keeps as still as possible. The stormtroopers roll his board next to a wall, the metal banging against the durocrete walls. The men seemed uncomfortable in the morgue, leaving at a pace just short of running. Reasonable, given the stench of death permeating every surface in the room. Even non-Force-sensitives would have a hard time missing it. 

He reaches out further into the Force, examining the morgue. It’s relatively small, for a battlestation this large, though he supposed it isn’t used often. Unless Vader made a habit of killing his own men. 

A droid sits at the opposite end of the room, unmoving. Deactivated or out of battery. No cameras either. 

He sits up, allowing the cloth covering him to fall to the side. The lighting is rather dim, and there are refrigerated compartments lining each wall. The door sits a few rows down, and he heads toward it, taking out his lightsaber to remove the remaining bits of the Force-suppressors that hung at his wrists and ankles. The hum of the blade is comforting, but he has to deactivate it before leaving the room— they happened to be quite conspicuous, and he would rather make a quick and clean exit. 

The hallways past the door are empty, so he exits the room as quietly as he can. No cameras there either. He tries to retrace his steps back to the turbolift, occasionally taking a turn to avoid coming into contact with imperial personnel. 

The bland gray halls look to be designed solely with cost and efficiency in mind. They have decent lighting here, but there’s not exactly much to look at. Still no cameras. As he gets closer to the lift, though, the number of life-signatures and droids increase. That was to be expected; the detachment he was to be blending in with would be leaving soon, and the battlestation would likely depart afterwards. The next intersection is mostly empty, save for a droid— kriff, mind tricks won’t work… 

He unclips his lightsaber from his waist and uses the Force to cushion his steps. As the protocol droid turns toward him, he ignites his saber and neatly decapitates it.

“Stop! Jedi!”

Blast. 

Obi-Wan turns towards the sound and Force-pulls the man towards him, placing the— ah kriff, he looks to be some sort of officer— into a chokehold. Brilliant. This was going to complicate matters, wasn’t it. 

He checks the surrounding hallways— still no one around, thankfully. He disengages his lightsaber, taking the code cylinders on the officer’s insignia to open the nearest unoccupied room. It’s fortunate for him that the Empire had decided to keep those. 

Dragging the officer and droid parts in takes longer than he prefers, but no one else walks by either. The room is a solid-black, and dimly lit at that. That seems to be some sort of running theme. Surely proper lighting wasn’t too difficult for an Empire with enough means to build this battlestation. 

Visibility isn’t much of a problem, however, as racks of bright white stormtrooper armor and blaster rifles line the walls, with more equipment on shelves near the back of the room. This is going better than expected.

He deposits the droid behind one of the racks, and moves the officer into a back room, where open boxes of explosives lay. Hmm… stun grenades could be of use. He drags a box out for examination, using the hilt of his lightsaber to knock out the officer again midway through. Someone is bound to notice the man missing soon, but relieving him of his comlink ought to slow that down. The code cylinder could be valuable too. Obi-Wan exits with his appropriated items, closing the door before activating his lightsaber next to it. The durasteel frame melts under the blade’s heat, sealing the officer in. 

He disengages his lightsaber before sorting through the box of explosives— they don’t tend to mix well— and takes the ones that most resemble the types used during the war. It would be best if he could test them, if only to avoid blowing himself up later on, but sadly, that would attract unwanted attention. He heads to the front of the room to grab one of the stormtrooper belts, placing the explosives and his saber into easily accessible pockets. 

He grabs armor around his size and strips off most of his clothing. Wearing the stormtrooper armor would necessitate wearing the black body glove underneath, unless he wants to be outed immediately. Pity. He’ll have to leave most of his clothes behind, then. Another remnant of his life as a Jedi he has to part with. 

The plain white chestplate and gauntlets are similar to the ones he wore during the Clone Wars, but much bulkier, restricting movement. He fastens the belt with his lightsaber around his waist, grabs a blaster rifle and power cell— newer than the DC-15A carbine, but essentially the same design— then leaves the room.

He heads toward the turbolift again, sending out a feeling deterring any onlookers from examining him too closely.The trick isn’t very reliable; it tends to work around half the time, less so against those trained to resist mind-tricks. However, no one calls him out. Yet. 

Obi-Wan joins a small group of troopers at the next intersection, and they reach the turbolift after several more turns. It’s quite large, leaving enough space for several more people even after they all file in. The journey down to the surface is in stiff, rigid silence. Small mercies. No one talking meant less of a chance he would be caught. He glances at the other stormtroopers every now and then, adjusting his posture and hold of his newly-acquired blaster until he’s indistinguishable from the rest. 

The door of the turbolift hisses open, and they spread out a bit after exiting, no longer constricted by narrow space. More hallways fan out in a circular path, all with immaculately polished black durasteel floors and walls, and, shockingly enough, good lighting. Groups of stormtroopers, droids, and officers bustle about, the walkways wide enough to support all of them and more. Something of this scale must have taken most of the Empire’s existence to construct, and a great deal of resources too. Just how long had its construction been planned? How many worlds were stripped bare of resources to fund this?

He moves to the back of the group of stormtroopers, then leaves it altogether as they head towards a hangar with a large Venator-class star destroyer. Too large for his purposes, with too many people to overpower— he’d have better chances with a shuttle or a starfighter. However, there is the matter of finding one first. There isn’t going to be enough time to manually search the area— wandering around raises too much suspicion, and he needs to find a suitable ship before the detachment for Dantooine leaves. Which is in around 15 minutes.

He walks for nearly 11 minutes. The general layout of the trench seems to be a pattern of docking bays, control centers, and armories, with large signs indicating their number. All are either empty or being used by ships with too many personnel to overpower alone. He has four minutes left, however, and while drifting between groups of stormtroopers avoids attention, he can feel more questioning glances the longer he spends alone. 

Like now. An imperial officer is trailing him, and has been since they noticed he had not yet boarded a ship. There’s a dwindling number of other stormtroopers at this point, and none are near him. The officer suddenly speeds up— ah kriff, maybe a mind trick?

“Trooper!” She’s suspicious. Mind tricks won’t work, then. 

“Colonel!” He salutes awkwardly, unused to the bulk of his armor. Force damnit, please don’t let them have changed the rank insignias—

“Operating number, trooper?” 

“CT-7567, sir.” He blurts it out without a second thought, and prays to the Force whatever had caught her suspicion would be overlooked.

“A clone then,” she sneers. A supporter of natural-born human superiority, then. “The 501st Legion?” The 501st?—

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your business here? Your legion isn’t leaving with the detachment to Dantooine.”

“Direct orders from Vader, sir.” Vague, but it offered a thin layer of protection, if she were to start asking—

“I’m an agent of the Imperial Security Bureau.” Security— ah. Likely some sort of intelligence agency, then. Probably best to answer her questions. “I repeat, what were your orders trooper.” She emphasizes each word slowly, as if speaking to a toddler.

“Relaying a message to troop transports heading towards Dantooine, sir.” He can’t be any more specific without giving himself away. He has no knowledge of the Imperial Military aside from what little carried over from the Republic, and he has no idea of how much had been changed. Something he said or done had already made the officer skeptical of his identity; any more and he would surely be detained.

She raised an eyebrow. “Is this a code 717?” Code 717— had they changed the codes since the Republic Army? If this were the same one that Cody and Rex had developed, it would mean another Slick, a traitor in their midst. If not… well, if he didn’t confirm it, he’d likely have to specify what it actually was, then.

“Yes, sir.” 

She nods, apparently satisfied with his answer. “All shuttles were moved to Docking Bay 325, after the malfunction in Docking Bay 327. You have three minutes until they depart.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

She walks away before he’s finished speaking. Docking Bay 325… He’s around ten bays away. This was going to cut it a little close, wasn’t it.  
.  
Obi-Wan moves as quickly as he can without outright sprinting, and while he no doubt looks out of place as a lone stormtrooper, there aren’t many people left in the halls to notice. The hangar comes into view, almost identical in appearance to every other, except for the presence of the troop shuttles. The scene looks entirely too similar to hangars during the Clone Wars, but with a hundred little things off— no markings on any of the armor, though clone troopers had not painted their armor to begin with either. The droids littered throughout the rooms were a solid black, shining beyond anything possible during the war except perhaps when Anakin had nothing better to do. He can see similarities between the transports spread before him and the Nu-class transports they had used, in the body of the ship and the way the wings folded, but these were much sleeker. If they had indeed based these off the old transports, he shouldn’t have too much trouble flying one. If nothing were to go wrong, that is.

He marches towards the nearest transport still boarding stormtroopers, wrapping himself with the Force and sending out a sense of I’m not here don't look at me. No droids around this time, thankfully. The entrance is located at the neck of the ship, with a cockpit to the left and an already-full seating area to his right. Well, kriff. Wait— if they had kept the entry ramp, then maybe— oh thank Force. Two sets of doors on either side to his right. He enters the farther one, closing it fully behind him. It’s a tight fit and he struggles not to make too much noise, not aided by the fact he nearly blacks out as soon as he’s out of sight. Force invisibility is an indispensable ability, but taxing, to say the least. He takes the time to rest and take stock of what he has on hand.

Three stun grenades— he’ll have to use them carefully. Each grenade will have a blast radius of at least three to four feet, if the Empire had not improved upon that— but he couldn’t trust in that. Definitely one for the cockpit, before entering into hyperspace. That left two for the stormtroopers on board. He had counted 20. Not nearly enough to knock them all out.

He can sense the ships exiting the hangar row by row, and leans against a wall for stability as his moves as well. They place themselves near the edges of a fleet— unusual, but this was a small detachment, so there are likely few of the smaller ships that usually made up the fringe. He concentrates on hearing past the dim closet, to the cockpit of the carrier. The navigator was confirming the destination coordinates, turning off the comms— 

As Anakin would say, it was now or never.

He readies the grenades. Opens the doors, throws two to his right— the stormtroopers’ surprise spills into the Force, not all of them are passed out, kriff— he throws the remaining grenade into the cockpit, drops his blaster so he can get his lightsaber— one of the shots hit his shoulder before he can activate his saber to deflect the rest of them. It takes longer than he would like; old age and the bulk of the armor are no help. He uses the Force to slam them against a wall— they should be down for enough time. He does the same in the cockpit, pushing the pilot onto the floor and strapping himself in. Close enough to Nu-class carriers, nav comps in the same place— he changes the destination to Yavin 4, no adjustments needed for the jump into hyperspace— both used the Hydian Way—

“Entering hyperspace in 3, 2, 1.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Docking Bay 327 being under investigation is my own invention, but I assume there had to be either an investigation or just time clearing out dead bodies (it was the one that Han, Luke, and Leia escaped from). Also invented Code 717, but Rebels has already shown that Vader does not change codes, and I assume that Rex and Cody had to face the possibility of another clone traitor when making them. Interesting thing is that there was a maneuver 717, where pilots allowed a suspected spy to head to their squad, and as soon as the traitor was unable to see the other ships, they would fire on him/her/they, and later claim the spy was shot down by enemy fire. Ha what are verb tenses I’m trying to be consistent but I keep on forgetting I promise someday I will get around to fixing all of them.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving y’all and thank fuck for days off from school my eyesight is noticeably worsening and I’m not exaggerating by saying that if it keeps getting worse at this rate I’ll go blind by adulthood. Two short chapters for now, a longer one’s probably coming out sometime over the weekend if I can finish it by then. Ty for reading this!

Anakin.   
It’s been nearly two hours with no intruder having been brought to his attention, but that hardly stops the train of “what-ifs” running through his mind. Everything is proceeding far too well for something not to go disastrously wrong, and soon.

He passes time by trying to meditate while going through katas. Although peace eludes him, he takes the time to note any issues he may have in combat lacking a left forearm. Thankfully, it was not his dominant hand this time— he had made a point of practicing equally with both, after Geonosis, but it had always been irritating to forget it wasn’t as dexterous as before, especially in the early days of the war. 

After Mustafar, he can no longer lift either arm above his shoulder without difficulty. His mechanical suit’s sole benefit is that it increases the strength of his strikes, a large price to pay for something he had not even needed. As a result, the style he had developed to cope was an amalgamation of Ataru footwork and speed, combined with his favored Djem So. It is heavily offensive, relying on series of powerful blows to overwhelm his enemies. But the stump of his left arm makes it all too easy to overbalance on particularly hard strikes, and while it does not diminish his ability to use the Force, it certainly does not help either.

As he moves, the crimson, bleeding, red of his blade illuminates the room, though he can only tell its color after years of practice— his goggles shift light towards the red end of the spectrum, so he has become adept at differentiating between different shades. The lightsaber crystal’s presence was unmistakably dark, however, bleeding with hatred and resentment after years of use. This particular crystal is synthetic, a punishment from his master after having lost one too many actual kyber crystals. He prefers it, all things considered. Kyber had to be bled, which added yet another voice to the cacophony produced by the suit’s enhanced hearing. Unlike external noises, however, screaming in the Force cannot be muted by turning down volume. Synthetic crystals still radiate the dark side, but are much quieter in that regard.

He is, of course, trying to bide time thinking about these matters. Avoiding a topic he does not know how to confront, only that he would rather not think about it. That’s something he has great expertise in, given he had been steadily, and successfully, ignoring it for over two decades. Not his decision to let Obi-Wan escape— that was a path he set upon, and would gladly see to its conclusion— nor Padme’s death— he couldn’t save her. She may have turned against him, but he still loved her, and he couldn’t kriffing save her— 

He couldn’t save Mom. He can recall with near-perfect detail how frail she looked in his arms as she died, how her body had gone cold and lifeless as he carried her over the dunes back towards the Lars homestead. They weren’t strong enough to save her, weren’t worthy of her.

He hadn’t been, either. Wasn’t. Isn’t.

The family she had chosen, after he left, were dead now. He received the news in an offhand remark in a report. There was, again, no sense of triumph at something he should have by all means been satisfied by. They hadn't rescued Mom, and neither had he, but they were her last remaining legacy. Excluding him,of course, but he was hardly worth considering, having taken everything she taught and thoroughly discarding it. 

She had suffered alone, on a dustball where scum went to make their fortunes, where slaves lived and died, where people were chained from lack of opportunity, with the twin suns blazing overhead and yet she could not even see them— she had always liked the sky. It represented freedom to her, a place far away from the sand and slavery and the fears that came with being a slave. He had, too, loved the mere idea of flying, the intoxicating rush of adrenaline podracing brought on. He liked thinking about what he’d do if he won a podrace— the money would go to Watto, of course, but he could probably get some of it. He only had a few vague notions beyond flying spaceships, but they always involved freeing Mom and him. He couldn’t imagine a life without her then, even if that would, in all likelihood, happen— slaves were bought and sold all the time.

What would she think about him now?

He imagines her in the room, looking around at the towering black walls that swallow what little artificial light there is in the room. In his mind, she looks… small. Small and afraid in a place so different from anything on Tatooine. The image morphs into her being tortured, screaming, features flickering between the Alderaanian princess’ and her own. He hadn’t seen what she went through, only the aftermath, but it had played over and over in his mind ever since, what might have happened if he had just gotten there a little bit faster— He overextends on a lunge— had he been practicing katas all that time?— and overcorrects, unused to the missing space where his left forearm should be. He falls, lightsaber clattering out of his hand, the noises echoing throughout the room. The illusions dissipate, leaving only him.

This was getting nowhere. 

He yanks his saber towards him, disengaging it and replacing the blade on his belt. Rising to his feet takes more work, and years of practice usually make the motion slightly less awkward. It doesn’t, this time, and he has to struggle for nearly half a minute. There’s a faint pain— well, everywhere, and he chooses to focus on that specific annoyance. If he manages to escape Coruscant— it was still Coruscant in his mind, the “Imperial Center” was only really used for formalities— he will gladly take any opportunity to swap the suit for functional prosthetics. 

The room he’s in is only nominally his— he prefers to sleep only enough to function, and more often than not, in his meditation chamber. As a result, it is sparse and more akin to a large, heavily monitored, empty, coffin. He had disconnected the cameras off upon entering this time, and so far, no officer has been idiotic enough to request that he reconnect them. 

The chrono indicates another two hours have passed. It’s currently the night cycle for diurnal species following Standard Time, and the advance scout unit has not yet reached Yavin IV, leaving absolutely nothing for him to do. He paces as much as he can in his quarters, and reviews his plans for escape. They’re not terribly detailed; there’s too much he’s unsure of in the moment. He continues like this, alternating between attempting meditation and reviewing plans, for the next seven hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His goggles being tinted red is in Legends, and considering he’s broken his suit so many times in both canon and Legends, I’d say him having lost his lightsaber isn’t too far of a stretch, but I’m making the part about the synthetic crystal up. Also disregarding Legends (not sure if this is in canon either, probably not) for how he reacted to Owen and Beru’s death. May we please all take a moment to remember Shmi Skywalker, a single mother of an idiotic, impulsive (not to say he’s not lovable but gosh darn does he not think things through) Anakin, in slavery, who willingly gaver up her child so he could have a chance for a better life. Also like she taught him good values that he just? Threw away? Vader you know full well your mom would be beyond disappointed in who you are you should be fucking ashamed of yourself.


	11. Chapter 11

Obi-Wan.  
As soon as the stars begin to blur in the viewport, he lets his shoulders drop, and stops clenching his teeth as hard. One of the few bright spots throughout his exile was not needing to pilot any more starships, and yet here he is again. The navcomp shows ETA 15 hours. Not too surprising, given the distance. He unbuckles the seatbelt, walking to the bridge to pick up the dropped blaster. An uncivilized weapon, but useful, in this instance. He turns it on stun and makes quick work of any imperial officials regaining consciousness, then moves to do the same to the stormtroopers.

The shuttle’s layout still has the cargo holds of the Nu-class ones they used during the war, and he begins dragging the personnel into the nearest empty one, removing their helmets, weapons, and any commlinks. It takes nearly half an hour, with liberal re-stunning of the personnel. He ends up having to use two other cargo holds as well, locking all of them from the outside.

By the time he’s finished, his hands are throbbing, too much to ignore. Opening a storage closet, he removes a vibroblade and a medkit, slowly, carefully, cutting off the bodysuit he has on underneath the armor, right below the wrists, freeing his hands. They’re shaking, and nicking himself is all too possible, but that doesn’t particularly matter. The medkit to his right has bacta spray, which he applies liberally over both hands. The swelling in his joints begin to subside almost immediately. Much better quality than the type smuggled into Tatooine, not to mention less likely to be contaminated. Probably would cost the average moisture farmer half a decade to save up for the amount he just used.

He walks back toward the cockpit, looking out the viewport at the mottled blue corridor of hyperspace. Around 14 more hours to go. He checks through the area for any potential tracking devices, destroying or disabling them as he goes. It doesn’t take long, given he had never really stopped doing the same on Tatooine. A certain level of paranoia kept him alive for decades, and he’s hardly abandoning that now.

After checking and rechecking both the cockpit and seating area several times, the navcomp still displays 13 hours to go. It would probably be a good idea to sleep, but he isn’t exactly overjoyed at the idea of more nightmares. Either way, he’s already fulfilled his daily quota of needed hours unconscious after his duel. Meditating, on the other hand, sounds like a much better idea, and so he sinks into the pilot’s seat, reaching out to the Force for guidance.

* * *

He doesn’t come out of it with any more answers than before. Regardless, it gave him time to recenter himself. The jump back into realspace is accomplished without disaster, and the imperials in the cargo hold are now awake, unable to do anything but sit there and occasionally argue in low voices.

Information on Yavin IV is sparse. Only the basics are recorded in the imperial database— it’s an uninhabited moon, one of the many orbiting the gas giant Yavin. Dense jungles, habitable for humans, no native species, and largely unremarkable.

He orbits the planet for around 20 minutes before reaching the moon, then switches to circling the latter. Luke and Leia have surely met by now. Hopefully, neither inherited too much of their parents’ recklessness. Before someone decides he warrants shooting at, he broadcasts a message to Yavin IV through the ship’s subspace comms.

“This is Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Always a good start to deter people against the Empire from killing him immediately. “I believe Senator Leia Organa had requested my help?”

There’s no response for nearly a minute. It’s the right moon, he’s checked— did they have the proper equipment to receive messages from the ship?

“If you claim to be General Kenobi, what was it I last say to you?”

“If I recall correctly, it was a recorded hologram of you, Princess. The last bit was, ‘Help me Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope,’ delivered by a blue and white astromech with a penchant for foul language.” The more detail the less time they would spend interrogating him, hopefully.

The laugh at the other end of the comm line is one of pure relief. Another voice takes over the line, this time, male, with a clear tone of annoyance. Obi-Wan catches a few mutters about “unnecessary risks.”

“You’re cleared to land now, sir. Hangars at 28 degrees north, 120 degrees east. Lots of fog, but you can’t miss it.”

At first, everything is completely obscured by the sheets of fog and a dense, rotting, jungle, but the man’s words hold true as he approaches, when an ancient ziggurat comes into view. Despite the large difference in scenery, he can’t help but be reminded of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant.

It’d be nice if Luke had the chance to visit there someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the Rebellion chose Yavin IV in Legends since it was excluded from official Imperial maps, but I’m assuming that their navcomps had it anyway given the issue of flying into a whole-ass moon. In my admittedly short search I couldn’t find anything on how Star Wars gives specific directions aside from coordinates. Assume anything related to layout is from Legends. Obi-Wan is horrible at self-care and, if anything, has gotten worse during his time on Tatooine because no dude however you were unconscious for like four hours after your duel that’s not exactly a good replacement for sleep.
> 
> I just want to talk about how ridiculously overpowered bacta is, like they had literal bacta bombs that heals anybody within its blast range like that’s straight out of a video game. The only downside to it is that bacta cultures can be contaminated. That’s it. I’m still using it though *finger guns*


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won’t be updating for like three or four weeks; I’m trying to research more for the next chapter but a lot of school stuff has just come up. Ty to everyone reading and I hope everything from here on doesn’t terribly disappoint y’all in terms of redeeming Vader.
> 
> Update I'll probably start posting two or three days into break sorry about that I haven't had any time to write recently

Obi-Wan. 

He steps off the ship, taking a moment to adjust to the polluted air within the Temple hangar bay. The stormtrooper helmet he had stolen is left on the ship, so he ends up coughing for nearly a minute. The fog condenses along his stormtrooper suit, and his hands, open to the air, can keenly feel the humidity. It’s completely foreign to him, after having spent so long in dry desert wastes. 

“Ben! You escaped!” 

Luke jumps off a military speeder ahead of his companions, rushing in to hug him. The Force around the boy is colored with unrestrained worry and excitement and relief, battering against his shields. The feeling is welcome, however, as is the breath being forced out of his lungs at the strength of Luke’s embrace. He gladly returns it.

“I do still need to breathe, Luke.” He doesn’t bother to contain his amusement, and Luke doesn’t let go either. He can’t blame the boy. Having lost everything you knew in a day… Any remnant of the past is more than welcome. 

“I knew you were still alive! I was so worried Ben, I thought I left you to die!” The words are expelled more akin to a rush of air, and Luke buries his face into Obi-Wan’s shoulder. He feels a burst of fondness for the boy.

“You left me behind, which was the right call,” he says gently. “Things may have turned out for the worse had you stayed behind.” He would rather not imagine what Vader would have done to a Force-sensitive as promising as Luke, nor the possibility of the sith discovering his son. 

Obi-Wan looks past Luke’s shoulder, where an armored military speeder approaches them. A white-bearded man sits in the front with Leia, the latter half-twisting in her seat to argue with Mr. Solo behind her. Chewbacca joins in as well, though it seems mostly to make fun of his friend. As the speeder nears, Artoo is the first one out, using his rocket boosters— those were still functional? Obi-Wan can still remember Anakin first installing them— to lift himself out and onto the ground, wobbling a bit upon landing. The droid immediately pushes towards Luke, beeping an indecipherable litany of what are likely insults interspersed with curse words. Luke lets go of Obi-Wan to turn around and pointedly roll his eyes at the astromech. They devolve into argument, with Threepio bumbling in as well to reprimand Artoo’s foul language.

The rest of their group dismounts the speeder as well and heads towards them, Leia breaking off from her argument with a snort of derision to join the bearded man in the front of their group. Up close, she looks to have inherited her mother’s stature, but the scowl is all Anakin’s.

It breaks away into a grin, however, as she approaches him. 

“Princess Leia.” He bows at the exact angle customary for a Jedi Knight to Alderaanian royalty, the movement still ingrained in him despite the bulk of his armor. “I am sorry for your loss.” Her smile disappears for a moment, and her eyes glaze over a bit, as if looking at something far off. It doesn’t last long.

“Thank you, Master Kenobi. And thank you for rescuing me. I don’t intend on joining my people before they are avenged.” Obi-Wan quashes the worry that particular wording brings. Her entire planet was just wiped out, and even before then, the Empire committed numerous atrocities. Wanting revenge is a completely normal reaction, and will not necessarily stay forever.

Leia turns to face the man at her side. “This is General Jan Dodonna. I believe you have served together before?”

Obi-Wan vaguely recalls the name from somewhere, but he doesn’t particularly remember the face… no… ah. He met the man briefly before his mission there, but the events following it were all quite blurry due to an unfortunate encounter with hallucinogenic spores. Hopefully, General Dodonna did not read mission reports.

“Cato Neimoidia, fleet commander,” the man affirms. “It’s good to see you again, sir.”

“You as well.” 

“Do you know whether the Empire has tracked either of us here?” Leia asks. “We’ve been concerned about possible attacks since they finished their Death Star.” 

Straight to the heart of the issue. He winces. “I’m afraid they placed a homing beacon on the ship you left on, Princess. I believe the Death Star will be arriving in approximately three hours.” 

“That was to be expected. They allowed us to escape far too easily,” she grimaces, resolved, more than anything. “At least we have time frame for preparations, then.”

General Dodonna checks his wristwatch. “Master Kenobi needs to be debriefed immediately. You sure you don’t want to leave with Mon, Leia?” 

“I’m not leaving more people behind.” She stands, resolute, eyes challenging either of them to object. The expression is all too familiar. It was Anakin before setting off on a mission regardless of whether he was allowed to, with Padme’s ability to stare down groups of people, holding eye contact with every one of them. She isn’t going to be swayed on the matter, that, Obi-Wan already knows.

General Dodonna seems to come to the same conclusion. “Alright then,” the man sighs. “You’ll want to turn off your comms— they’ve been trying to get me to leave nonstop, and they’ll go for you next.” Leia smiles a bit at that. “Let’s go!” he calls. Their group gathers back towards the speeder, but Han and Chewbacca aren’t anywhere in sight—

“He’s probably off getting his credits,” Leia says, answering his unasked question. “He’s been complaining non-stop about them since we got here.” Obi-Wan purses his lips. The fifteen thousand credits he had promised could not have been cheap to anyone, much less to a rebellion. “And Artoo and Threepio know their way around,” she continues. “I don’t think they’ll blow anything up this time.” Well, then— he certainly hopes so.

He’s joined in the front by General Dodonna, with Luke and Leia seated in the row behind. Next to one another, their similarities become all the more evident, not quite to the point of twins, but definitely of siblings. He can hear their parents in them, too— already disagreeing on which starship is superior, with Leia beginning what sounds like a well-rehearsed, well-spoken argument for the superiority of the Delta-7 Aethersprite when used to its fullest capacity. 

Anakin’s children, the last hopes of an entire galaxy. It’s a large burden for anyone to carry, and they’re still children, yet he has a feeling they will more than rise to their task. 

The speeder slowly trundles into the ziggurat. Its interior was likely altered to suit the rebel’s needs; the stone of the temple apparent from the outside is covered with large sheets of metal, and some sections feature rotting wood alternating with poured paneling. The grandeur of the temple is not diminished by it, though, the sheer size and visible age being enough to awe. They leave the speeder near a turbolift bank and ride up a floor. There are some curious glances at his armor, but no one shoots at him, a large improvement. The base is bustling with activity, Rebellion members weaving in and out of crowds with caff and determination.

“The stormtroopers you captured will be brought to a detention center, but it’s only makeshift for now. We don’t usually house prisoners on-planet, but if we get through today, we’ll be abandoning the moon soon.” A pause, as a Mon Calamari hurries past him. “We can let them out with a distress signal after.” General Dodonna takes care to speak to him in an undertone. Likely an unpopular decision, then, but he had specifically requested it.

“Thank you.” Obi Wan means it. While he may no longer be a part of a larger order, he still follows the tenets of the Jedi Code, and it advocates not to kill whenever possible. The Rebels had been planning an interrogation either way; they need as much information as possible prior to the Death Star’s arrival.

“The plans that the princess delivered are being examined by analysts, in conjunction with two others that we previously obtained. They think they’ll be able to identify a weakness soon.”

“Are you prepared if one is not found in time?” 

Their group enters a room with yet more narrow hallways, sticking to the walls to avoid being swept away by passersby. They emerge near the end of the hallway, entering an empty room to the left. Luke and Leia follow after them.

“We don’t have the resources to move everything before they get here, even if we had a few months. Believe me, we would have if we could. Everyone deemed vital to the rebellion’s already leaving, though, so it’ll live on whether or not we fail.” The doubt in his voice is apparent. Obi-Wan only had experience aiding organized resistance movements on a planetary basis, but something spanning an entire galaxy? The manpower and resources lost today if they failed to stop the Death Star would be a near-insurmountable hurdle. 

“The ones leaving, they want you and Leia to go with them?” 

“Yes. They’ve already left, thankfully, but they’re still trying to convince us to go too. Staying here’s a big risk, but abandoning everyone—” He’s cut off by his comm beeping. “Sorry, have to take this.” Obi-Wan gives a nod of acknowledgement. He seats himself next to Luke at the long, rectangular table dominating the center of the room. Leia sits opposite them, gesturing as she proudly explains parts of the rebellion’s operation.

He’s aware his want for Luke and Leia to leave the planet as soon as possible is selfish, and all too likely stemming from undue attachment to them, on the basis that they’re… he can’t bring himself to even process the name past the usual wave of loss and sadness, not now. That was the name of who Vader used to be, and if the man had been truthful in his views of the Death Star… he would have ensured there was an exploitable weakness, regardless of whether he had any official say in the design. And that’s far too much to hope for.

General Dodonna turns back towards them, face grim. “One of our outposts here was just captured by scout troopers, probably sent ahead of the rest of the Imperials. You said that the Death Star’s arriving in three hours?”

“Yes. I believe they intended to leave shortly after I had, around 15 hours ago.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you escape? And how did you find out all this?” Obi-Wan does very much mind the question, but this was a matter of extreme importance, sadly enough. It could be the basis of future Rebellion plans in the very near future. He remains silent for a moment, trying to formulate a response that did not sound entirely banal. He had been expecting this question. To be honest, an interrogation as soon as he landed would not have been entirely surprising. Not that he had tried to think through a response in preparation, having wanted to limit thoughts on this matter for a later time. Everyone’s eyes are turned on him. Brilliant.

“Vader seems to have had a change in heart and decided to let me go.” Blunt and straightforward. Nothing could be left up for interpretation, not with this. “He informed me that the Empire had tracked Princess Leia’s escape with a homing beacon to Yavin IV, and that you have three hours to evacuate after my arrival. He aided my escape by way of faking my death, and informed me I could hide with a detachment headed for Dantooine, hence the unconscious Imperial officers on my ship. Given the time frame, I assume they planned to leave following said detachment.”

General Dodonna is already calculating, running through the possibilities. The man paces in a small circle near the head of the table, scratching his head. Obi-Wan can sense Luke’s bafflement to his side, as well as Leia’s anger. It is perfectly rational to feel angry, especially considering Vader had just before that destroyed her entire planet. He had nearly fallen several times throughout the first few years of his exile, and she’s not even trained to release her emotions in order to avoid that. The reminder fails to calm him, but General Dodonna speaks before his train of thought can progress any further. 

“A coup? He’s made power grabs before, but never this obvious of one.”

Leia interjects. “If he’s planning a coup, he’d have to act before the Empire got word of it—” 

“Our escape wasn’t that easy, though. They let us leave, fine, but we almost died in that garbage chute while trying to rescue you. And then the Millenium Falcon— we only got there before your execution since Han’s ship was so fast, but Ben and I could have taken any other one in the shipyard. That would be horrible planning.” Luke is right on that point. Vader wouldn’t have planned this out, no.

“He’s done a lot of impossible things,” Leia points out. General Dodonna nods his agreement. “Bad planning, sure, but he may not be the one pulling the strings, or he may have had alternatives for whatever he wants to accomplish.”

“That may be true.” If even saberwork had carried over, though… “I don’t believe he had anything planned, however.” 

“You think he let you go on a whim?” General Dodonna sounds… confused, to say the least. Admittedly, it would be, even to him, if he did not know who Vader had once been. 

“You knew him.” Everyone’s heads swivel to stare at Leia at that. It’s a statement, not a question. “We’ve heard that some of the inquisitors, before they were disbanded, used to be Jedi. It’s not a far stretch Vader was too. You knew him, right?” 

“From a certain point of view.” 

Leia seems to want to ask more, but General Dodonna interrupts.

“Is there anything else you found out? Any weaknesses?”

“Not unless your goal is sabotage.” 

General Dodonna shakes his head. “We were planning on it, but we didn’t have enough information, and now we don’t have enough time. The only structural weakness we’ve found so far is in the focusing crystals of the superlaser, but we don’t have enough capital ships to exploit that.” The man sighs, wearily. “We’ll have to leave that to the analysts for now.” 

They stay silent for a beat. There’s not exactly much to say in the face of what would likely be their deaths. And he already knows he’s not leaving— he can’t. Leia is adamant on staying, and Luke is already loyal to a cause he’s not been a part of for more than a few hours, he can feel the need to help radiating off the boy. He could try to persuade them, of course, but with what, exactly? Any knowledge of their parentage would be of more danger to them than remaining here, and any of Luke’s destiny— placing that burden on anyone would make them buckle under the weight of an entire galaxy. Better to not tell him, at least until the boy is more prepared for it.

Leia makes the first move to speak. For a moment, Obi-Wan thinks she’s going to ask about how he knows Vader, then— 

“There is still the matter of the Imperial Senate.” 

General Dodonna nods, sadly. “The entire thing was dissolved, and any senator suspected of Rebel activity were arrested, in addition to their friends and families.” Their families? Was Bail—

“My father was one of those arrested in connection to me.” Leia looks toward him as she speaks, silently imploring him. “He’s a founding member of the Alliance, and knows more about our operations than almost anyone else—”

“We can’t do anything to save them, not yet.” General Dodonna is solemn. “We might be able to arrange something later, but they’ve just been arrested, and the Imperials are on high alert. I’m sorry, Leia.” Obi-Wan shakes his head softly. He’s nearly two decades behind on galactic operations, and can do even less at the moment.

Leia purses her lips, but concedes. Given her lack of mention of any other family, they had likely been on Alderaan during its destruction. Meaning Bail is the only family she knows of still alive.

They leave after that, the time the room was reserved for now over. General Dodonna heads to the analysis labs a floor up, with Leia following the man after giving directions to the general storage area and commissaries.

* * *

  
  


Obi-Wan takes a deep breath, admiring the sheer amount of Living Force contained by the moon. The fog is heavier up here, but it’s a welcome distraction. The cool air pricks at him through a thin shirt, rolled up to his elbows to better feel the water droplets. His borrowed commlink sits by his side. Luke had gone off with a friend he saw at the commissary, and so Obi-Wan had decided to wander around the temple while waiting to be called upon by General Dodonna. He had found an access hatch to the roof of the ziggurat, with a brilliant view of the vast expanse of jungle below.

The amount of green here— Master Jinn would have loved it. Probably would have also kept a few pathetic lifeforms from here too, openly disregarding laws regulating the potential introduction of invasive species. Not that it would make much difference on Coruscant, with its thriving underground black markets.

There was never this much green on Tatooine, aside from the occasional cactus that could withstand the harsh climate. He hadn’t understood Anakin’s initial fascination with the amount of plant life on most planets, until now. 

He hadn’t understood a lot about Anakin before his exile on Tatooine. The utter loathing for sand, the ingrained habits of conserving water whenever possible— and yet the boy had been so willing to give, even when he had almost nothing. That was not native to Tatooine.

However, time there had not granted him insight on Vader’s current actions. By all accounts, it does seem like a bizarre power grab, yet— warning the Rebels? Vader had said it was since they were a thorn in his master’s side. Was this some act of petty defiance before overthrowing Palpatine? Or did he not expect to succeed, and wanted to leave a mess for the emperor to clean up after he died? But was this an attempt at a coup, or a part of a larger plan? Luke had said their escape nearly killed them, so it would make sense if this had been an in-the-moment decision to seize power. Either that, or another of Palpatine’s orchestrated battles. It’s certainly within the man’s abilities. But was it in any way related to their duel?— no, that would be too good to be true. From his experience, those things always tended to end in disaster. 

Everything traces back to one question— how much can he trust Vader? It shouldn’t even be a question. The man marched on the Jedi Temple and killed _younglings_ , perpetrated massacres on worlds across the galaxy, allowed the Death Star to be fired on Alderaan— and it _was_ allowed. If Vader had truly been against it, he _could_ have stopped it. Right? 

His thoughts drift to the oncoming battle. If they were able to lure Vader into participating in the oncoming battle— Obi-Wan’s reflexes had dulled over time, but Vader was at the significant disadvantage of being down a limb. It wouldn’t be impossible. He still has to remind himself that no matter who Anakin had been before, Vader is only a twisted shell of that man.

Yet Obi-Wan’s still not sure whether he can bring himself to kill even that, not when there’s a single spark of hope left for his brother, for the child he had helped raise. Not on Mustafar, and maybe not now.

This was going to be another one of those impossible decisions, wasn’t it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we saw how he chose last time.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!!! Also, wow, over 100 kudos!! Tysm to everybody reading, hope you enjoy!

Anakin.

Tarkin stands slightly in front of him, studying the screen before them. The man had been silent since the Death Star approached Yavin Prime, and not much can be discerned from his Force-presence either — it’s the same cold calculation as it had always been. The question of whether Tarkin was planning for his death, or the chances of a Rebel base hiding nearby, remains very, very present.

A report had been made by two imperial officers. One of them was sealed in a room full of explosives by a bearded human wielding a blue lightsaber, while the other found the room welded shut after hearing someone banging the door. The file had not yet reached the ears of anyone whose death he could not easily arrange, and all records of it were deleted with use of Directive 081-Omega. Not as clean as he would prefer, given that anyone who knew what they were looking for could find that he deleted it. It was worth the cost, however. The file could no longer be retrieved. He had also removed all remaining evidence, so even if someone took the claims seriously, there would be little left to investigate. Only the disappearance of a low-ranking officer with no recorded family to inform of his demise, and of a stormtrooper present at the princess’ escape, whose time of death had been altered to that incident, the cause being internal bleeding sustained from an extremely long fall. Medics had unfortunately not arrived in time, and the body was destroyed due to a lack of familial relations to claim the corpse. 

He staggers backwards ever so slightly as the shriek of the alarms fill the room, bathing it in a bright, bloody red. Tarkin steps closer to the screen. There— emerging from the upper atmosphere of Yavin Prime, exposing themselves to the Death Star’s sensors. Bright red specks, growing rapidly in size. The green circle of the targeting systems shifts and adjusts, but the starfighters move too quickly for them to lock on for long.

“Ready the cannons! Fire before the focusing beams are ready and we will all die.” Tarkin's voice cuts through the air, the reprimand full of derision. On the screen, one of their Tartan-class cruisers move forward to engage, breaking out of an inverted V-formation in front of the Death Star. Their attackers split at once, two diving for the CR90 positioned behind the cruiser, and the third, rushing towards the  _ Divad _ , an EF76 Nebulon-B frigate. All the snub fighters remain in reach of the Death Star’s cannons, but too far off for any shot made to be remotely accurate.

The room drops into a tense silence. The first two snub fighters engage with the cruiser, but they are at the rim of any sensors and as such, communications are slow. The third fighter dips into range of the  _ Divad _ , but Tarkin orders it not to engage. They retreat after that, speeding back towards the planet below. The room’s attention returns to the first dogfight, a barely-visible whirl of green.

The ships are well-matched. The Tartan-class cruiser is the only type in their fleet that can effectively deal with snub fighters, being much more maneuverable and with relatively strong shielding. A majority of Imperial ships equipped for starfighter combat had left with the detachment to Dantooine. An oversight, especially given that the cruiser is being led further out, possibly into a waiting ambush. Tarkin voices his thoughts, words dripping with disdain.

“Call Admiral Motti to disengage. They are trying to slow us down, likely to give their allies a chance to prepare.” Either prepare, or evacuate. But any evacuation should have taken place already. “And tell him to return the naval escort to the hangar bay. If the Rebels wish to attack again, let them commit suicide while trying to get close enough.” 

Kriff. Any evacuation should have taken already. Meaning they were planning to make a stand. Making a stand meant coordinating from somewhere, almost certainly near Yavin IV. The chssk-eating son of a vetch didn’t even—? The Rebels dying off today wouldn’t throw too much of a wrench into his plans, but how many were off the planet was an issue. If he planned on escaping Coruscant after killing Palpatine, he needed the attention to be on them, not him. It would still be plausible, that some cell would decide to pour their strength into a last-ditch effort, but this was the  _ main  _ base. Any intelligence officer with an ounce of common sense would be able to see that an assassination would need to be more organized than a group that just lost its main command. This is a steaming pile of bantha shit,  _ this _ is why plans are utterly,  _ kriffing _ useless—

“The moon with the Rebel Base will be in range in 30 minutes.” The voice on the intercom is practically trembling through the static. Ah— shit. He immediately releases as much of his panic and anger as he can, stifling the rest behind thicker mental shielding. Force-users’ emotions could influence others rather drastically, and there was no need to draw attention to the source right now. 

The room is still brimming with anticipation, however. 30 minutes is more than long enough for more attacks. He carefully, slowly, returns to his previous train of thought. The Rebel fleet consists mostly of repurposed cargo ships, with the fighters having been captured from Imperial air bases. The three plans they had stolen had two weaknesses, as far as he could tell— the focusing beams, which would require more capital ships than even the most generous of estimates would give them. Not to mention the turrets placed in preparation for such an eventuality. Leaving the exhaust port along the meridian trench, accessible only to smaller ships due to the battlestation’s shielding. Assuming the Rebels found it at all, they had more than enough snub fighters to attempt several runs. It was, of course, heavily defended, with surrounding field generators affecting every sensor of attacking ships. Any accurate shot would have to be fired by sight and sight alone. 

Ah. That must be why, then. Obi-Wan believes he had a chance of making the run. Quite dangerous to stake the entire Resistance on that, but people always seemed to have such faith in the man. 

Like Padme had. 

It would be entirely too easy to ruin that, of course— if the Rebels decided to attempt a run of the trench, he could exit on a starship with the excuse of defending the Death Star. The lack of an arm would make everything more difficult, but his TIE fighter outclassed any of the Rebel fighters. He had always been the better pilot.

_ That’s a waste of a perfectly good opportunity and you know it _ . 

The voice floats through his ears, light and teasing and reminding him entirely too much of Padme to shut out. 19 years dead and he can still hear her perfectly, acting as a voice of reason to his impulsivity, nearly as much as—

The point is valid. The destruction of the Death Star offers the best possible alternative to not encountering the Rebels at all. He could escape the explosion and make his way to the nearest planet with an Imperial presence, heading to Coruscant from there. If there were no other complications, that is. Even if there were, it remains a better course of action than being blown up with the Death Star. 

“Closing in on Yavin IV in ten minutes.” The voice on the intercom seems to be largely emotionless once more.

On the screen, a mass of green stretches over the red display of the moon. Starships. More than expected, but not by much. 

As they approach, each figure comes into greater focus. Three capital ships, two of which are identified as Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers. Entirely out-of-date — they were primarily used during the Mandalorian Civil War. Far too slow for any offensive. The third capital ship has no identification, and he doesn’t recognize the holoimage presented next to it either. It’s nearly one and a half times the size of a star destroyer, with rounded edges and blisters dotting the hull, whether for shielding or turrets he can’t tell. The Rebels have starfighter manufacturing capabilities, then. It remains to be seen of what quality.

The rest of the ships are, as he thought, converted cargo freighters, with an assortment of stolen Imperial gunships.Several squadrons of starfighters as well, though they hang off to the side. In total, the Rebel Fleet only outnumbers the Death Star’s escort fleet, as the battlestation has thousands of TIE fighters and assault shuttles. It would, by all accounts, seem to be an easy victory.

Tarkin seems to agree. The man orders for the communications satellite to be set up, seemingly without backup. A ploy, of course. The two Tartan-class cruisers, along with a collection of TIE fighters, exit slightly behind the comsat, in range should any starfighters attempt to attack. 

The Rebels take the bait. A small group of starfighters streak out from one of the squadrons, and the TIE fighters engage accordingly. One of the attackers ignores the Imperials, barrelling straight towards the comsat. The cruisers reach them in time to engage, while the assailant’s wingmen are finally shot down by the TIE fighters, leaving two fast-moving snub fighters to fend off all the Imperials. They seem to be quicker than the cruisers’ targeting systems, and a TIE fighter narrowly avoids crashing into the larger starship when one of them fly out of the way just in time. The original attacker dives for the comsat, and the two snub fighters immediately disengage, moving out of the blast radius. The TIE fighters are caught in the explosion, while the cruiser doesn’t pursue the escaping Rebels. Damaged, then. 

“Tell Admiral Motti to arrange the fleet in a defensive position, now. And have a squadron of TIE fighters for every Rebel squadron that attacks.” The officers rush to convey Tarkin’s orders to the ships, overlapping voices filling the room along with their fear. Losing the satellite may not cost them the battle but it would certainly hinder their efforts, and impatient commanders could lead to impromptu executions. 

As soon as the escort fleet begins forming up, the Rebels’ capital ships begin to move forwards. Leading the charge is the unidentified ship, headed towards one of the star destroyer’s flanks. A stupid decision, unless— ah. Strong shielding, possibly beyond the Empire’s capabilities. Most of a star destroyer’s firepower faces forwards, with a common strategy being to concentrate all turrets towards one target. Few ships could withstand even a fraction of that power before their shields failed. This, evidently, is not one of them. But even the best of shields cannot hold out forever, not if any of the space is allotted to guns. 

The ships pass one another, exchanging bursts of fire. Star destroyers are useless in broadside battle, more so against a heavily shielded opponent. It moves in an arc to face their enemy, but it’s slow-going. 

The two dreadnoughts then begin to move, hulking behemoths rushing towards the other star destroyer and the  _ Divad _ , at a much quicker pace than the ancient design would suggest. Modified, then. It wouldn’t be too surprising if the Rebels added extra shielding as well, given the effectiveness on their first capital ship. In combination with thick hulls, the ships would be near-impenetrable. 

The admirals commanding the escort fleet do not seem to come to the same conclusion, if they noticed at all. Their remaining ships advance, meeting the Rebels just within comms range of the Death Star. The last ship is barely finished moving when the squadrons of enemy snub fighters, previously hanging on the edges of the battle, fly down in a swarm. Tarkin is halfway through barking an order to Admiral Motti when his attention lands on their newest issue. It’s an annoyance to the man, more than anything— the Death Star is more than capable of defending itself, and Tarkin is unaware of the exhaust port. 

The attacking squadrons close in on the concave dish housing the main laser. Kriff’s sake don’t let them have been  _ this _ idiotic—

“Sir! Several of the Rebels broke off from the main group and are heading south.” Oh thank the Force. They did have common sense after all. 

“I will take men to deal with them.” 

Tarkin turns, barely raising an eyebrow. “The turrets are more than capable of defending the battlestation. Their efforts are futile.” Tamping down on the urge to choke the man there and then may be the most difficult thing he’s had to do in many, many years. He needs a way out— Tarkin can’t be suspicious of— oh kriff. What if— no. The officer’s death was well-hidden, no evidence remaining, and certainly no indication of his involvement. Unless he had managed to miss something? The ISB, one of the reporters could have been an ISB agent— 

“Go, if you so wish. It may save us some credits in repair.” Tarkin’s voice is entirely dismissive, and the man is already turning back to focus on the battle at hand. He turns, cloak swirling behind him, not daring to question the reprieve but shifting his hand towards his belt nonetheless. Killing everyone in the room— more than possible, and he could take Tarkin hostage if need be.

There are no armed troopers gathered along the way to the hangars to subdue him, however. He strides down the bleak gray hallways, contacting two members of his squadron via comm gauntlet as he goes. Another benefit of it having been his left arm that was detached— he doesn’t have to struggle through using a holocomms unit.

They meet him in a small hangar identical to every other. The troopers wear the standard all-black garb of pilots, with large, tube-like extensions on their helmets that connect to a life-support unit carried on their chests. Rather similar to his suit in design. Had that been intentional? He wouldn’t put it past Palpatine.

The men are in front of TIE fighters, standing at attention when he enters the room. He makes a show of ignoring them, marching to his TIE Advanced x1 and making a Force-aided leap to the hatch located at the top. The cockpit is slightly larger than that of most TIE, as is the rest of his fighter. Imperial doctrine stated that pilots be as reliant as possible on the Empire so as to avoid defection. No starfighters were allowed hyperdrives or shielding, the complete lack of protection even being seen as a badge of superiority. More of one of expendability. He has both, in addition to being capable of carrying secondary weapons. Which, since discovering the Death Star’s flaw, had been two proton torpedoes. Just in case.

A single marshaller stands in front of the fighters, indicating when each of them in turn can exit the hangar. He goes first, using the Force in place of his left hand. Precision with it is more difficult than lifting entire buildings. The TIE jerks a bit, not quite flailing but certainly much less smooth than usual. It’s not the first time he had to pilot one-handedly, and he’s practiced since his first disastrous attempt, though clearly not enough. Thankfully, shooting and redirecting energy throughout the fighter could all be done with his right hand. 

Grey ferrocrete buildings rise on either side of him, with only the occasional flash of green light in the distance giving any indication they were not on a lifeless moon. 

“Report in.”

“Black one standing by, sir.”

“Black two standing by, sir.” 

A trail of destroyed turrets marks the Rebels’ path through the trench. Many seem to be extremely recent, with the half-crushed bodies of stormtroopers littered around each. 

The Imperials stop shooting as he flies by, relief wafting off, creating a thick, cloying sensation. They probably wouldn’t react for a good two or three seconds if he turned and began firing at his wingmates. Enough time to escape. But that’s not for now.

He doesn’t comment as the troopers accompanying him drift out of attack formation, flying ahead in their rush to reach the Rebels. They’re giving him the perfect position to take them out, served on a silver platter.

Up ahead. A trio of fighters still moving as if to dodge oncoming bolts— there. In the lead. A battered orange-and white fighter, strike foils arrayed in an “X,” moving faster as his wingmates drop back to face the TIE fighters. 

The Rebels engage. Useless. The field generators are still disrupting enemy fighters, meaning they’ll be killed quickly. And not shooting down Obi-Wan immediately would be rather conspicuous.

He barrels into the path of one of the snub fighters, daring them to move out of the way first, either into gun encampments or in front of TIE fighters. They choose the guns. Diving straight into a crowd of stormtroopers that no longer have to worry about accidentally hitting him, shields up almost too late to avoid being shot down. One of the TIE fighters chases after the Rebel, tail facing him. Well. That won’t do now, will it?

He takes the shot. It doesn’t miss. The gray orb goes up in an explosion that fills the comm lines with feedback, but the fireball quickly dissipates in the oxygenless void of space. Two seconds.

TIE fighter behind him. No shielding. They don’t have any. 

He plunges downwards. The troopers shooting at him hit the TIE instead. It barrels out of the way, damaged, but not having taken the full brunt of the attack. No need. The snub fighter it was previously engaged with finishes it off. Another explosion, another static-filled comm line.

He dives through the trench, moving from side to side, avoiding the blaster bolts raining down. He can’t waste time returning fire. Rolling out of the way of another shot, causes him to nearly crash into a wall, but he corrects in time. The space is narrower than what he’s used to flying in. Not too different from pod racing in Beggar’s Canyon, though.

Above him. The white and orange stand out, marking a clear target. Turrets still fire, now at his fighter when their main quarry flies out of reach. That was quick.

He angles his fighter skywards, until he’s at the same height as the guns. As Obi-Wan. The targeting system still works. Not that it’s necessary, but it certainly makes this easier. The red bullseye circles around the open strike foils, but the snub fighter moves too much for them to lock on. A growing reflective glow indicates power being redirected to shields. Away from engines. It slows the fighter down enough for several openings. The shields would fall sooner than he would run out of power cells.

But that’s not his target, at least, not now.

The turrets are. 

He takes out as many as he can, all the while keeping an eye on Obi-Wan. They’re not too far off from the end of the trench, where the exhaust vent is located, but the defenses there are heavier. Even with the Force, there are only so many things anyone can concentrate on at a time.

Kriffing—  _ LEFT!  _ Two TIE fighters soar in behind them, shots grazing the right side of Obi-Wan’s fighter. He wheels around to face them, swerving to avoid another bolt. They split up, each making a hard break in opposite directions. Fighters operate in trios. A distraction and a trap, then, but he can’t escape for now. Obi-Wan will have to hold on his own.

The turrets have stopped firing, at least. The troopers can’t risk hitting the TIE’s, meaning they’re completely open. 

He chooses a fighter at random to pursue, firing on them and deliberately missing. The other TIE closes in behind him. Idiots.

He rolls out as the trooper behind him shoots. The fighter he was after goes up in an explosion, and he can see another fighter sharing a similar fate, farther down the trench. It’s not Obi-Wan. He’s not sure whether that’s a good thing. 

The second TIE fighter continues to chase him, the shot bouncing harmlessly off his shields. He leads them on for a bit, before arcing around to fire at them. The fighter rolls out of the way, though. Into the wall.

He speeds ahead. Probably won’t catch Obi-Wan in time, but he doesn’t need to. As soon as— 

_ GO! _ The voice rings through the Force, much louder than strictly necessary. He gets the message, though, and pulls straight up, redirecting all energy to his engines, moving erratically to avoid being hit. That slows him down, but only a bit. 

A bit’s enough. The explosion shrieks through the space directly behind him— Sith hells he  _ refuses _ to go out from a lack of piloting skills— 

He makes it out of range, just barely, and his targeting system’s down. There’s not much time to celebrate being alive. The Imperial fleet, directly in front of him, is mostly intact, a single star destroyer flanked by two very damaged Tartan-class cruisers and a CR90 corvette. The Rebel assault frigates are being pushed backwards, but, inconveniently enough, the squadrons previously focused on the Death Star begin diving into the fray from behind. There’s a new capital ship as well, a badly-kept  Corellian freighter that looks to be the same one the Alderaanian princess escaped on.

He moves towards the fringe of the battle, hiding in the wrecks of Imperial and Rebel ships. It’s not far enough.

One of the Tartan-class cruisers start firing at him. They were informed of his… recent actions, then. Could Coruscant — no. None of the ships in the Imperial fleet have comms that could reach that far, and the Death Star’s should have taken too long to transmit to even the nearest planet. Not that what should or shouldn’t be ever really dictated what happened.

He barrels out of the way. 20 laser guns, powerful sensor array, and specifically designed to be anti-starfighter. The Rebel capital ships are currently engaged with the lone star destroyer and its accompanying crew of TIE fighters. Kriff.

It’s already badly damaged, and fending off other waves of Rebels. Small mercies. A thin glint indicates the ship is redirecting power to their shields, and a quick glance tells him that the other ships of the Imperial fleet are doing the same. Falling into chaos after the Death Star’s destruction, in all likelihood. There’s no need for him to stay, not when the Rebels can take full advantage of that to win.

He dives in at the same time as a Rebel squadron, but stays as far as he can from the bulk of the attack. In order to fire back, the cruiser has to lower their shields in certain areas, which is difficult for most to exploit while still not being shot.

He won’t have as much trouble. The damaged targeting system saves him the trouble of turning them off, so he reaches into the Force to determine when to loose a proton torpedo at the gunning position. 

A gaping maw opens the ship’s crew to the vacuum of space, and the Rebel squadron takes advantage of the chaos to eliminate any remaining cannons. It’s a massacre.

The main battle has migrated farther towards Yavin IV, but the star destroyer is surrounded on all sides, with the wreckage of the other Tartan-class cruiser drifting off behind it. The CR90 is a bit closer, with several Rebel squadrons assaulting it as well. A single fighter dives down below the engines— they’re going to be shot down. The ship had been reconfigured prior to this battle, after one too many CR90’s had been captured due to the blind spot.

The fighter rolls upwards, nearly crashing into the ship itself. A hail of blasterfire hits where it had been a few seconds ago.

He reaches out into the Force.

It’s Kenobi’s newest apprentice. He’s sure of it, though he had only had a fleeting glimpse before. Bright, unshielded, and screaming with the arrogance of youth.

It wouldn’t be too out of his way to— 

A large white disk-shaped ship crashes through the space in front of him. He can barely pull up before it’s firing— kriff, this thing must be modified beyond belief, Corellian freighters were nowhere near this fast— he dodges and weaves back through the shattered wreckage of the Tartan-class cruiser, the ship still after him. He moves as erratically as he can— all he needs is to jump into hyperspace, hyperspace, alright— closest planet is Vaal, very close to a nebula this could go very wrong— 

He jolts forwards, sensors in the cockpit shrieking as if their existences depended on it— kriffing hell  _ of course _ it had to be his engines that were hit— the fighter rolls nearly out of control, dipping up and down— Force, he needs to get to hyperspace  _ now _ .

The Corellian freighter is gaining on him much, much quicker than he’d prefer, but he can’t exactly insert coordinates while piloting  _ without his other kriffing arm _ . Right, then, he can— he better not die, he  _ will not _ die without taking the Force-forsakened son of a vetch Palpatine with him— 

The viewport of his cockpit brightens all of a sudden, and the fighter lurches forwards— oh kriff the hyperdrive had been damaged hadn’t it— black, star-speckled space morphs into the blue-and-white mottled corridor of hyperspace. 

He hadn’t had time to set coordinates. 

No time to dwell on the fact he’s almost certainly going to die. How new.

He reaches into the Force, jerking the fighter around as it shouted muddled warnings at him of where to go. The kaleidoscope of colors and swirling lights beyond the transparisteel never changes. It has never changed, still the same patterns as his first time in hyperspace, and every time since.

That’s not as comforting as it used to be. He has absolutely no indication of whether he’s going in the right direction or not. 

The fighter halts, dropping out of hyperspace and nearly dislodging him from the seat. When he clambers back up, a yellow-spotted planet with large blue oceans drifts below him, practically mocking. He moves to enter the atmosphere— even if this wasn’t Vaal, he had no intentions of trying hyperspace travel like that again.

The Force, it seems, has other plans. The hyperdrive suddenly re-engages when he’s nearing the upper layer of the atmosphere, and he pulls up on reflex, before trying to re-stabilize the fighter because there were no guarantees he wouldn’t crash into an asteroid or moon or planet or whatever kriffing thing the universe seems so hell-bent on throwing him into.

It’s barely any better than the first time. The alarms somehow manage to grow in volume, and the entire fighter jerks around enough to send him crashing to the floor, restraint belts piled on in a useless heap.

His next exit into realspace comes next to a planet rather than a nebula, thankfully enough. He doesn’t waste time diving straight into the atmosphere, exiting the fighter and allowing it to crash without him. Even with all his power, though, there’s only so far he can Force-push the TIE away from him before it explodes, throwing him backwards. 

The sudden expansion of air is quickly sucked right back in, and black spots start filling a good part of his vision, his body spasming within the shell of the mechanical armor.

He’s just conscious enough to use the Force to soften his landing, but it still drives a fairly deep hole in the wet mud. Large spurts of flame color the sky to the right. It’s raining. Rain— rain was good, right? Not an oil flame, so it should put out the fire… 

Large warnings flash in his… screen? Eyes? Not eyes, those don't work like that… Whatever it is, it seems bad. The red hurts his eyes to read, though. It’d be a lot easier to just… sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this was a long one. For me, at least. Sorry for the quality; this one in particular I was rushing since I wanted to post by Christmas. I’ll probably update it in the next few days so it’s a bit better.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This month is probably going to be another one of those I'll post when I have time things, because yay for putting so many midterms, final projects, and just hw in general in one month

Obi-Wan.

He hadn’t been lying, really, when he said he was tired in order to leave the afterparty prematurely. Passing out from exhaustion is very likely, given his… well, the polite term would be “advanced age.” A more accurate description is “too old to be of long-term use.”

But 57 standard years is well within the lifespan of the average human. Qui Gon had been 60 when— when Naboo had happened. That was probably his last chance to get out of this mess. Facing the end of a blaster does seem appealing, sometimes. He doesn’t regret staying alive, of course, it’s just not quite the same thing as wanting to live.

Even if his accommodations have improved drastically. The room is larger than his cell aboard the Death Star, and the presence of an actual bed is greatly appreciated. It had previously been occupied by some officer who had been evacuated prior to the Death Star’s arrival. Likely for that reason, the room was stripped bare, with the only remaining contents being those too large to easily move. Thick floors and ceilings muffle the riotous celebration above. Excitement and joy seep through the Force nonetheless, louder than even most cantinas. It’s hardly conducive to sleep, but he’d rather not chance leaving the room and encountering someone. The comfortable anonymity he experienced upon arrival had largely disappeared, but so far, no one seemed to recognize him as a Jedi. Small comforts.

The Force does not grant him the same mercy when it comes to Vader. Well, perhaps knowing that the man’s focus is no longer on killing him would count as merciful. But whatever replaced that goal will almost certainly involve more casualties, with no guarantee Vader won’t randomly abandon the pursuit. His impulsivity is already well-established.

That impulsivity did not entirely rob the man of common sense. Mostly. Leaving the Death Star during the trench run was logical— being blown up doesn’t seem to be Vader’s plan. But by far the safest course of action from there would have been to shoot him down, then complete the run himself. Unless— could his fighter carry secondary missiles? Even if it did, Vader could have shot him down after they escaped. It wouldn’t have been too out-of-the-way, and— 

Kriff. Vader must want him alive for some reason. Probably for whatever larger plan the man is now aiming for. That accounts for him being alive, the help on the trench run, and whatever else he isn’t aware of.

In short, it explains everything but Vader’s response to the warning of the battle station’s imminent explosion. Had he even interpreted it correctly? _Volume_. Anaki— _Vader_ , had complained about how loud he was in the Force, something so utterly— Was that another commonality between the two? Just another thread intertwining his former apprentice and Sidious’ servant. The two, inextricably— no, not inextricably, just— linked. Very closely linked. That’s hardly a surprise; Palpatine had been meeting with Anakin since the boy was of nine standard years. 

_Nine_. 

He’d be deluding himself in saying Anakin was not molded to be a stepping stone to Vader. Purpose-built for falling. Pruned and trimmed of whatever Sidious disliked, but still having become the man Obi-Wan had been proud to call brother, Ahsoka’s master, the 501st’s commander.

Not “but.” There was no contradiction in the statement. Anakin had been _allowed_ to become the person they knew. 

Yet it was still his choice to fall. Obi-Wan’s sure that it wasn’t inevitable, that type of thing _isn’t_ inevitable. Manipulated or not, Anakin made the choice to give into the dark side, to slaughter the younglings, to commit every atrocity he had since. Not so much fallen as dived in headfirst knowing what could come of it. And Vader’s sudden change of heart, if anything, only serves to reinforce that. He _chose_ to go through with it, but could have done so any time before this.

That doesn’t stop the lingering sense of guilt.

He’s never allowed himself to dwell on how much Palpatine orchestrated everything. He hardly had a full picture of the events even before the war, before the Force had become so clouded. Conjecture, while valuable, would only travel in circles, always coming back to a why or a how he wasn’t sure of. It would only lead to fear. And fear leads to anger, and anger leads to hate, hate leads to the dark side and he didn’t survive everything just to fall now of all times.

There are more pressing matters. Like how much to tell the Resistance. 19 years is a long time for anyone to change, and he has no guess as to Vader’s current motivations. Beyond that— Vader’s identity is out of the question, though they’ve likely pieced together that Anakin was Luke’s father. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to deal with too many questions regarding that. Yoda being alive is another little factoid he’ll have to omit. Unless Bail told them... he'll have to play it by ear, then. Then there’s— Ahsoka. _Not the time to fall, remember. No point in spending time on pointless theorizing._ Where the Empire got the materials for the Death Star. They could be planning another, now that it had been destroyed. How the news was portraying the loss of the battle station, and whether the Resistance planned to counter it. How they had previously reacted towards Imperial propaganda.

Just about everything that had happened between Utapau and Alderaan’s destruction. 

It seems he’ll have to work harder at escaping the continuous cycle of speculation. But he can’t just _do nothing_ , he’s survived for a reason and that reason isn’t to sit around and watch the Republic’s ashes be further destroyed.

Inactivity is better than nightmares, though. He’ll give it that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I imagine the celebration for the Death Star’s destruction had at least some reference or hope to it being the end of the Imperial era, given that they later on used BBY and ABY for year markings (though I have to say trying to switch that type of thing isn’t very realistic). This chapter didn’t deal with it at all, though I might write a one-shot of it some day. Here’s to 2021 being less of a disaster year than 2020, and for our disaster lineage to be less disaster-y!!! 🎉🎆🎊


	15. Chapter 15

Anakin. 

City engagements are the worst. Conflict inevitably boils down to house-to-house fighting, and in the case of cities that needed to be captured, not subdued, bombing ceases to be an option. 

So by all accounts, they have been overwhelmingly successful. Three squadrons lost the previous day due to a building collapse, but the issue was quickly rectified. Remains had not yet been recovered, however. Active Rebel cells make the chances of an ambush all too likely. 

The largest array of dockyards on-planet is located nearby, and the city itself is the last hold-out of Separatists in the Bryx sector. Caught by surprise, the most any of those forces could do was flee. Many made it to interrogation rooms instead. 

Overall, a minor military engagement. The only notable portion of his assignment there was the specific value of the goods traded.

_ Slaves. _

The Empire is uninterested in halting slavery, especially when it comes to the construction of the Death Star. Even the Hutts are allowed free reign in the 90 some sectors that made up Hutt Space for the tax revenue their kajidics extorted.

It’s a test. Obviously. His master is fond of this sort of thing, seeing his reaction to things Skywalker would have railed against. 

There were few civilian casualties in the city. Most, it seems, have learned to keep themselves safe while under the Separatists' thumb. Underground shelters were a popular method, each of which had to be individually cleared to flush out stragglers. Some of the older buildings in the area even connected to disused tunnels, stable enough, for the time being. The Separatists had found those too. How to clear them is his main—

Kriff. Below— 20 feet, maybe? Troopers halt behind him, raising their blasters. He opens a palm facing downwards, dislodging the charge. Flexes his hand, crushing the explosive in the tunnels beneath.

Another one activates, a three feet in front of the first. Then another, and another, and all the way down the empty street in the labyrinth of tunnels below. The ground crumples like flimsiplast, crushing some farther away from him, all of whom cling onto their weapons as if a blaster would stop chunks of rock from splattering their heads across the ground. He deflects as many pieces as he can, forming a makeshift cocoon of safety. The booming doesn’t stop for half a minute, dust drifting around pieces of ferrocrete he keeps aloft. The only separation between their little clearing and the mounds of earth above. 

His men scramble out of way as he drops his strained hold. It’s not even close to the heaviest weight he’s had to lift before, but ensuring that those around him weren’t completely crushed was more work than usual. But as useless as they just were, on the whole, the men he chose to accompany him were competent.

The exposed tunnel has old, rounded ferrocrete walls, with rusted pipes poking out of the ruined sides. Far ahead, panic floods from a single figure. Not the confused chaos of the surrounding buildings, but a more focused kind of terror. A last-ditch attempt for the Separatist forces to escape. Useless. But it wouldn’t do to allow them to succeed, now, would it? Not without a parting gift, a little reminder of how it feels to be under their thumb and unable to do anything about it.

He reaches into the Force, allowing his anger to serve as fuel while not fully giving into it. The bomber rises, scrabbling at their neck as they levitate in the air, drifting towards him at a slow, leisurely pace. Humans always reach to their throat when being choked. How many times does it take for them to stop instinctively reacting? 

How many times had it been for him?

Not the time.

It’s a man, hovering in front of him. Tall, but still young. 20 standard years at most. Full of fear and the distinct sensation of abandonment. What exactly did the boy expect, working for Separatists?

“Who ordered you here?” 

Panic is flooding into the Force, clouding everything with the urgent scream of being unable to breathe. The grip is hardly that firm, but he supposes that adrenaline could be overriding logical reasoning. He slackens the hold, permitting the boy to fall to the floor while gasping patheti— 

Mistake. Kriff— boy’s hand, detonator, Force knows how many explosives. 

A gout of flame roars past, blanketing the crumpled figure before him. It howls in pain, melted plastoid fusing to a hand under the onslaught of heat, clothes warping on skin. The smell of cooking flesh wafts towards him, filling the suit’s enhanced sensors.

He snaps the boy’s neck and flings the body farther down the tunnels. None of the explosives were set off. Turning, he gives a nod of approval and makes a note to promote the trooper later on.

Then a wave of heat bruises his backside. He drops to the ground, whirling his head to face— there’s a scorching pain at his knees, but— he can’t see it. He can’t get up kriff why can’t he— missing arm. Not his mechanical one, that one is clinging on for dear life. The broken glass beach pockmarks his face with yet more scars. 

He looks up. No one’s there. Nobody had been there for a while, not since Obi-Wan left him to die. The lava ebbs and swells, coming closer to his legs. His clothing is slowly fusing to his skin, each drip of sweat that runs along open wounds leaving him screaming in agony, dry throat bleeding at the effort. He can’t let himself die now no matter how much he wants to, and kriff he wants to, but he doesn’t want to go he can’t go  _ this isn’t how it’s supposed to be what has he done?  _ Padme is pregnant, he has to stay alive—  _ children (just like the ones he massacred at the Temple, but at least they died quickly).  _

Embers spark along his scalp. The only thing he can smell is that rotten egg scent of burning hair. Tears are streaming down his face, mixing with the sweat and ash and blood. It’s a waste of water, but he can’t stop it  _ he can’t even move _ . There’s a splitting shriek in his ears, so loud he almost misses it when he hears his master speak. Ordering someone or something to bring him up. Dull, faint Force-signatures come to get him, feeling more like droids than sentients. Palpatine stands to the side, a raging storm of malevolence cloaked in a cold, damp, darkness. Power. The kind he was promised, enough to let him save Padme, wherever she is.  _ Please, Force, let this have been enough to save her. _

* * *

It’s still hot, but not the choking, smothering heat of Mustafar. The room he was reconstructed in was frigid, though. A departure from the usual sequence of nightmares. But if he’s conscious enough to know that, there’s a chance this is lucid dreaming instead. That’s not much relief, being conscious enough to know he’s in a hellscape but unable to change it or wake up without dying some violent death.

The air rips at his face, tearing new holes over his melted patchwork of scars. He opens his eyes to face whatever new horrors his mind has conjured up. 

The room is a dull green, illuminated only by a weak chemlight that glows a soft white. The ceiling looks more akin to the rough walls in caverns, though it’s oddly… blurred. He lifts a hand clumsily to his head, groping over his face. No mask. The metallic fibers of his gauntlet feel cold on his bare skin, but even the slightest brush brings him back to Mustafar. Below it, the grill of his respirator still covers his nose and mouth, though it’s rasping loud enough for even his half-melted ears to hear. Likely… damaged, during his crash-landing. That happened. Not a nightmare, then. 

He can’t feel very far, but his senses are still more attuned than the average Force-sensitive. Only one other presence in the stretch of… tunnels. An oversight. Even in the Outer Rim, his appearance and a general idea of his abilities is quite well-known. This is either the work of an overconfident amature, or there are additional measures he’s yet to encounter. 

He lets his hand drop, using the arm to brace the edge of whatever he’s lying on. It trembles, twitching more than it had during his first time using the suit. Getting up won’t be possible any time soon.

The hum of the kyber crystal at his belt is as present as ever, though a lightsaber is not of much use if he can’t so much as stand. Wielding it with the Force is theoretically possible, but it’s more likely to accidentally kill him in his current condition. Leaving it nearby is a suicidal decision on the part of his captors, but they correctly estimated that he would be incapable of harming them upon waking. Exhaustion, probably from overusing the Force in an unconscious effort to keep himself alive.

The other presence is heading towards him. Faking sleep is an option— no medical equipment to tell whether he’s awake, and he’s not in the best shape to withstand torture. But there’s nothing to be gained by staying silent, not unless this is one of those idiots who take pride in monologuing their achievements. If it is, they deserve to be fully aware of what’s happening as they choke to death.

He shifts his head to face his captor as they enter the room. Humanoid, with— not white, no red-lensed goggles on. They’re pink, with fleshy skin and a bald-domed head. Moving slower after noting that he’s awake. No weapons. The Force bursts with anxiety. He could probably kill them, weakened state or no.

“You’re… You’re the one on the holonet, with the red lightsword. Right?” Stilted Basic, but it could be due to accent rather than unfamiliarity. Young, though how many standard years is impossible without knowing the average lifespan of their species. The lack of a name is conspicuous, but it’s not an attempt at ignorance. “I saw you next to a crash, when the rain started.” They have the specific lilt of someone regurgitating memorized lines badly. The Force confirms his disbelief. “No— okay, it was my— it was my friend who saw you, next to the ship crash.” The doubt must have shown on his face. No mask, right. They were fumbling for an excuse, but what was said seems to be true. They don’t want their friend to be known, then. Covering up involvement. Not somebody wanted by the Empire, or they would have killed him when he was unconscious. He revises his assumption of captor. 

“Why bother?” His throat prickles. The words come out fine, if a bit accusatory; it seems they did not remove his enunciator or voice processor. Saves him the time of making new ones.

“Melting into a slag heap didn’t sound much fun.” A defiant tone, and they seem to regret it immediately, flinching backwards as if that would stop a Force choke. He won’t kill them yet. If he’s going to wait out recovery, amusement is hardly the worst companion. 

Didn’t seem much fun. He _ was _ screaming, then. Melting—?

“A slag heap?” Relief rolls off in waves, and they seem comforted by the idea they won’t die immediately. Sidious would torture them at this point. But he’s not interested in rendering his only source of information too terrified to speak.

“The rain. Coal’s the only thing left here, and mining it makes it acidic or something. We took off your helmet before it fused to your head, and… my friend’s fixing it. The rain’s not stopping for another day at least, though, and I can’t go out to get it before it stops. It was the worst off of your stuff, I mean, and… ”

He allows them to ramble on uninterrupted. Acid rain. Judging by the number of Force signatures, the planet isn’t inhabited enough for the mining to generate that much pollution. Although it could be one of the worlds being worked for the last remnants of usable material after years of being stripped bare. 

“If the rain is as corrosive as you say, what business did your friend have outside?” There it is. Their hands fold over one another in a self-soothing gesture, before releasing to tug a loose thread on their clothing. Silence, for a bit, their mouth shifting as if fighting with itself over whether to tell the truth.

“Ship crashes usually leave pieces of durasteel or something else that can get credits or rations. If we waited ‘til the rain had stopped, all that’d be left would be a melted lump.”

“So you rescued me for what, exactly? A payout?” A dangerous venture. They’d kept him alive so far, however, so he could tolerate their presence. A reward for the effort could be given, but as far as the galaxy can know, Vader is not human, and had never been. It helped maintain the carefully cultivated image Sidious wanted for a tool that inspired terror. The standard procedure would be a quick death, no risk for messy complications.

“Like I said, melting into a slag heap doesn’t seem fun.” Scowling, now, annoyance rolling off in waves. Personal, or the insinuation they had an ulterior motive touched a nerve. The type of thing to be expected by the naive and idiotic. “I’m going to go check on my vaporator.” Another pause, accompanied with the mouth twitching again. “The rain sometimes means the water’s not good for drinking.” A thin of an excuse as any. He rolls his head so it is once again facing the ceiling, dismissing them without so many words, but keeping alert until they leave the room. 

It seems, by all accounts, much too convenient. But if the Force willed it, many things were. Obi-Wan— it meant that they— that he, is on the right path. 

The walls of the tunnel are brown, not green like he first thought. The chemlight is yellow, not white. No goggles. It’s rather nice seeing unadulterated colors outside of nightmares, if not for the eye strain. The rain apparently pouring outside isn’t even audible to him, though he can feel the torrents lashing down in the Force. 

The child has no living parents, it seems. Much too young or at least stupid to be willingly living alone. Not friendless, though, but all struggling enough for money they would risk being caught in acid rain to scrounge up some bits of metal. Not the time to be thinking about this. There are better things to be doing than speculating their living conditions if he’s already sure they have no interest in killing him.

What to do next. His final goal, of course, is to kill Sidious. Given his weakened state, he’ll have to wait a while. Ideally, he would be in acceptable condition upon return to Coruscant, with the less time spent idle, the better. Sidious would discover his plans sooner or later, and he would prefer keeping the element of surprise.

Before that, though, is a vague blur. Whenever the rain lets up, he’ll need to find his way to a city. More Force-signatures dot north of here, none obviously Force-sensitive. They become tighter-packed as well, but with several large swaths of land entirely empty. Coal mining, his… not captor, but it’s yet undetermined whether they had any other plans for rescuing him. An Outer Rim world, focused on coal production to the extent that the rain is extremely acidic. Poor denizens willing to risk acid rain to get a piece of metal.

It would reason that this planet runs on slavery, then. 

Not the time. The shadows on the ceiling jerk —  Not. The time. More deliberate breaths, then he pushes his anger into the Force. Again, as the tumbling chaos of anger rushes right back. Sometime between those two attempts, the chemlight stops rattling.

He’ll leave when the rain lets up, stay as long as needed, then return to Coruscant. Sidious is undoubtedly aware that he is alive, though hopefully no more than that. The details can be worked out along the way; his plans never work out exactly how he wants them to anyway. All the better, detailed contingencies tend to be too narrow for proper improvisation.

He sinks into the Force, pushing thoughts from his mind until he enters a light healing trance. It’s one of the simpler aspects of Force healing, which, though he has the power for, there’s never been an immediate need, nor texts to study from. The rain won’t let up for a while. He may as well make the best of his time until then.

**Author's Note:**

> I update every other week on Sundays, might be a bit more active during breaks though! Hope you like what I have so far, and ty to everyone reading this!!


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